


A Season for Crows

by girl_wonder



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-28
Updated: 2011-05-28
Packaged: 2017-10-19 20:44:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/205023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girl_wonder/pseuds/girl_wonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years after Sam left him for Stanford, Dean gets a call that Sam's been brutally murdered. While searching for something that's willing to murder a Winchester, Dean discovers just how involved Sam was in the life he tried to leave behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Season for Crows

**Author's Note:**

> The [gorgeous vid](http://supernaturalvid.livejournal.com/507566.html) was made by freedam but contains spoilers for the story. freedam and I suggest that you watch it after reading.
> 
> So much of this fic is due to the tireless effort of my beta, kunju. Forever thanks.

Dean Winchester would later find out that his brother's body was discovered in an alley in the tenderloin district, crumpled against a brick wall.

By the time a patrol officer followed up on the anonymous 911 call, the crime scene had been disturbed by at least two junkies. They'd rolled the body to get to his back pockets. When Sam died, he'd been on his back, intestines arranged in a pile beside him on a newspaper, like a fish corpse.

When he found out the exact time of death, Dean would count back and realize that he'd been in Kansas City at the time, showing off at pool. It hadn't been a game he had money on, but there'd been a blonde watching and every time he made a cut shot, she'd grinned. He imagined that when his brother was gasping his last bloody breath, he'd been in the blonde's apartment, screwing her against her flowered comforter.

The blonde's name was Lindsay, but everyone had called her "El." On the inside of her thigh, she had a tattoo that said "Must be this high to ride." He'd laughed and asked, casually, if she got many midget applicants, thinking only of how hot ink on skin was, and that it was better than a tramp stamp.

Her comforter had been a little rough and he'd gotten rug burn on his knees.

His cell phone had rung while she was going down on him and he vividly remembered ignoring it, because someone had been calling non-stop, just ringing and hanging up, listening to him say, "Hello?"

She left long red scratches across his back; they were still there three days later when the police picked him up for questioning.

The next morning, he answered his phone with a rough, "What?"

On the other end, someone had sighed and he thought for a second that it was that girl from Tennessee, who he'd given his number to in case her troll problem came back.

"Dean?" The voice was high and nasal, like the woman on the other end was holding her nose to keep it from running. "Sam's dead. He was... He was- I can't. I'm sorry."

She hung up. Listening to the silence, he said, "Jessica?" to an empty phone line.

El came in from the kitchen with a tray of fruit, something for a morning after good sex when you wanted the morning after to lead to an afternoon after and then a night after. Without looking at her, he pulled on his jeans and said, "I have to go."

His experience with morning afters was usually brief and reciprocal; he rarely accidentally picked up clingy girls. El frowned and left the tray, going into the bathroom. Maybe if he was someone else he would have knocked on the door and coaxed her out, but he winced when he pulled his jeans over the raw parts of his knees and thought about Sam, dead.

It was an impossible thought. Sam being dead was like someone knifing him in the supermarket, unexpected and impossible to comprehend. His heart beat unevenly, and he pushed the heels of his hands against his eyes.

Gritting his teeth, he waited for the groaning elevator in El's apartment and wondered how Sam had died. Dean had always told him that he needed to keep an eye out for his left side, Sam had a blind spot like he needed a red and white stick.

The elevator was taking too long and so Dean took the stairs, two at a time and landed wrong at the bottom, sprinting like he was chasing something. If he caught up with death, he could have his brother back and it wouldn't matter that Jessica, Sam's fucking _wife_ , had already used the past tense.

He called her from the car, keys missing the lock and scraping down the door in a jagged scar.

When she didn't answer, he almost wondered if it was Caleb playing the sickest joke he'd ever heard of, except that even Caleb wouldn't go that low. The ringing broke into voicemail and he ended the call, redialing immediately. He rested the phone against his shoulder, using his other hand to guide the keys into the lock. The dial tone was too long, and he opened the door with a brutal twist.

The car needed a tune-up, which was why he was in Kansas City in the first place; he knew a shop that was good at getting replacement parts, and they never asked about weird stains or smells. Really, though, it was a place that owed him and Dad all the tune-ups they'd ever need because of the exorcism the two of them had performed using only table salt and a broken pencil.

The voicemail clicked in and Sam's voice said, "You've reached Sam and Jessica, leave-"

He snapped his phone shut and turned back towards the interstate. The car was blankly silent, empty of sounds even from the outside. Her engine drowned out everything until it was just white noise and the bright glare of the rising sun on the Impala, the sides of his vision clearing when he hit empty territory.

One handed, he pressed redial and listened to the dial tone again, seemingly too long on the first ring, like a drawn-out note.

Three hours later, when he was stopping for gas, he shut the phone and didn't redial. The sun was soft in the sky, masked behind clouds. It hit the car warmly, coloring the black paint yellow.

When he bought gas, he bought coffee, black and hot sludge that had been sitting in the pot since breakfast. He drank it in huge gulps as he drove, one-handed. It burned hot and bitter down his throat.

He didn't stop for dinner, just gas and more coffee.

When the sun set in front of him, finger-painting the sky colors, he watched the silhouettes of the cars in front of him, their lights the only distinction in the darkness. Turning on his headlights with a switch, he pressed harder on the gas pedal. It had been fourteen hours since Jessica had called him. He had no idea how long Sam had been dead.

The state lines passed under his wheels in unmemorable blurs. After the first few stops, the logos for gas stations began to meld together. White and blue. Red and white. Red and yellow.

The pumps were all the same and he lifted a guy's wallet just to switch up the credit cards. His fake already had too much suspicious activity. In Nevada, he bought bullets at a gun shop, square boxes filled with different types of shells. He didn't want to wait to buy any in California, not with a Nevada license.

He drank coffee like it was water and pissed into bushes on the side of the road so that he wouldn't have to wait in line at the gas station.

When morning came, he scratched at the stubble, two days old now, and didn't shave. It was six a.m. California time and he started calling Jessica as he was pulling out of Reno, the sunrise hitting his rearview like headlights.

He was on the 80 when she picked up, her voice scratchy and used. She sounded like she'd been screaming.

"Hello?"

"How did he die?" The question - having to ask _that_ question - made him tighten his fists around the steering wheel. He wasn't sure he wanted the answer. On the wheel, he watched his hands, the knuckles dry and cracked from use.

Jessica breathed into the receiver, inhaling once as though to speak, and then letting the breath out instead.

"Fuck!" Dean swore and swerved out of the way of a semi, his attention back on the road.

"Are you ok?" Her question was soft, voice still smoky. She sounded like she needed the answer.

"Fine," he said. "How'd he-"

"They don't know." She cut him off, twisting horror and terror into the words. "He was murdered in San Francisco and the cops are too incompetent to even -"

He filled in the pause, and didn't shy away from her bitterness, her rage.

"I'm on the 80," he said. "I'll be there soon."

The sky turned muddy, cars gaining color as the light increased.

"See you." Her voice promised something, but she hung up too fast for him to put his finger on it. It was just two words, and he wondered if she needed someone to be with her that badly, that she would ask for her dead husband's brother.

He drove until the sun was high again and stopped at a McDonald's two hours before San Francisco. His shirt was stained with sweat and he hefted his duffel bag out of the trunk, checking to make sure that none of the weapons were visible. He tossed two knives into the trunk, their sheaths making thick _thuds_.

The handicap stall was littered with toilet paper and scrawled graffiti that had been poorly painted over. He changed his boxers and jeans, standing barefoot on the tile to change his socks.

Using his old shirt, he sponged off his chest in front of the beaten mirror, glaring at the teenager who sneered at him, all youthful bravado. He washed his face with the pink hand soap, skin coming out over-dry and stretched.

The one clean shirt he had was from a bar in New York and it featured a '50s pinup winking beneath the words _Missy's Bar and Grill_. She was blonde, and had obscenely red lips.

He nearly puked on the first sip of coffee, sloshing too wet in his empty stomach, so he got food. The fries were dry but he choked them down and almost finished the burger before he felt bile in the back of his throat. The cashier stared at him when he slammed open the bathroom door, barely making it to the sink before he threw up.

His throat burned and he ordered another coffee to wash out the taste of it.

Once outside, he called Dad. The phone rang through to voicemail and he would have been worried, but he had bigger fish to fry. "Dad. Sam's dead. I'm going to San Francisco. Call me."

By the time he hit San Francisco, taking the bridge across the water, the roads were crowded with traffic.

He almost missed their street, but he'd been there once before, so he circled back and found street parking. It was before nine, so he'd probably get a ticket, but he wouldn't have to wait another second before he could see her.

Jessica buzzed him up without asking, and the door was cracked when he got to the third floor.

"Hey," he said, hoarse. He cleared his throat and stepped into the apartment, closing the door behind him. "Hey," he said, again. "He isn't dead. I'd _know_."

Spinning, she hissed at him, "What the hell do you know? He's dead. I had to go down to the morgue and identify his body. Do you know what that was like? _Sam's dead_."

Hands tightening to fists, she pulled them close around her body, hugging herself tightly. She turned back to the window.

"How'd you know how to get here?" she asked, her voice almost calm. Their window looked out over the street. It felt higher than he knew it was to see her standing so close to the window, because when she was that close, it looked like a ledge.

When he spoke, her fingers tightened from where they clutched around her waist.

"I've been here before."

Once. And Sam had said, _no. Don't come back._

But that was years ago and Dean wished that he hadn't listened, hadn't done what his brother wanted, the way he always did. He could picture her in the morgue, the way her face must have looked.

"I don't remember that," she said, her voice distant. The cadence was off: she wasn't the glowing bride he'd seen before. Her fingers tightened and the sun caught on her wedding ring for a second.

"I didn't stay," Dean said. He walked forward and touched her shoulder, turning her.

Her makeup was smeared, almost artfully. He'd been to enough funerals to recognize the piece: _Bereaved widow in mourning._ She wasn't looking at him, but the deep lines under her eyes told him she hadn't been sleeping either.

"Have you heard anything new?" he asked.

"No." Her eyes snapped up at him, spitefully. "You aren't sorry for my loss?"

"Hey. My loss, too." His hand tightened on her shoulder, and he released her suddenly.

"Yeah. Right. Loss of the brother you haven't talked to in _years_. Loss of the brother you couldn't even keep civil with for his goddamned wedding." Her voice broke and she turned back to watch the street.

Beneath them, people moved quickly and cars crawled up the steep hill.

"I called you because I thought you'd have the decency not to show up."

He listened to her words, the smooth way she transitioned to an insult. He didn't remember that about her, but then again, he'd only met her once.

"I'm sorry for your loss," Dean said, snappishly. He clenched his teeth; this wasn't how he'd seen it going.

"Fuck off," she said, and threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around him and sobbing hot into his shirt. Her nails gripped hard at his neck and he felt reassured that she understood the gaping wound where his heart used to be.

They clung together for a minute and then someone outside blasted a horn, really leaning on it, and she let go, catching sight of her hands, of her bloody nails. "Oh," she said and wiped at her eyes where they started to tear up again. "I'm sorry, it's just, no one's..."

"It's ok," Dean said, reaching back and touching the torn skin on the back of his neck.

"Here, we have a first aid kit in the bathroom." She tugged on his wrist, her fingers cold against his pulse. She smelled like she hadn't showered in days. He imagined he smelled the same.

Their bathroom was cramped, a tub in the corner with a stained white plastic shower curtain and a small toilet. The tile was worn, chipped and cracked and he let her shove him onto the closed toilet; his eyes traced the cracks up as she grabbed at something under the sink.

When he turned, she was running hot water over a washrag, her hands steady. She said, "It's clean," before wringing it out, carefully putting it on his neck.

The skin stung and he closed his eyes to watch the colors. It had been too long since he slept, and he was feeling dopey, almost drugged.

"Where'd he die?" Dean asked.

She stopped rubbing with the rag and he heard her uncap something. With a cotton ball, she spread something scentless and cool on the scratches. He waited until she was sticking on a bandage before asking again.

"In an alley." Her fingers pressed down on the bandage and he didn't turn to look at her. "In Little Saigon."

"Where's that?" There was a crack in their tub, too, spider-webbing up, stained brown on the edges.

"Larkin Street. I have the address. They wanted to know if I knew why he'd be there."

The cops, Dean thought fuzzily. "I should get over there."

"You should sleep."

Her fingers were cool on his wrist again and she pulled him into the bedroom, settling him down under the covers, tugging off his boots like she'd been doing this forever. It didn't seem like the sort of thing that Sam would need her to do.

He let her lift his feet up into the bed, between the sheets that smelled like Sam. Even after this much time, the memory of how his brother smelled was a kick in the gut, a flashback to burying his nose against Sam's neck before he left for college, of zipping their sleeping bags together for warmth when Dad left them at a campsite on their own.

He was falling asleep on Sam's pillow, lost in the memory of his brother, and Jessica leaned over him, her breath warm on his temple, her tears making him flinch.

******

The television made colors flash bright on the walls, a laugh track sounding freaky and out of place next to Jessica's quiet crying.

The clock said that it had only been two hours since he got in, but his mouth felt gummy, throat dry like he'd been asleep a week. Sitting down next to her, he watched where her fingers gripped the remote, tense. Her back was curled forward a little and he realized that she was carefully holding herself on one half of the couch.

Her other hand was pressed against her cheek and she took two quick breaths.

"Hey," he coughed, tried again. "Hey."

"You want something to eat?" she asked, loud and real against the comedy on screen. She wiped at her eyes and the dumb guy bought encyclopedias and the studio audience thought it was worth a last, phony laugh. "We have some leftover pizza or I could make you a sandwich."

"I'll find it," Dean said, waiting a minute to get up. Outside it was dark, lit by street lamps and headlights. He heard some loud music a few floors down.

Their kitchen was clean, no dishes in the sink, no takeout in the trash. It looked like she'd gone Martha Stewart while he'd been asleep. He could still smell the bleach.

While he watched the pizza turn round and round in the microwave, he absently brushed a finger along the windowsill, brought it to his nose.

It took a second for him to realize there wasn't any salt there, and he checked again just to make sure. "Sammy, Jesus _Christ_."

A cabinet fell open, the latch putting up a good fight before giving in to gravity. Inside, the round cardboard container of iodized salt stood in front of the rest of the spices. Dean left the pizza in the microwave and picked up the salt.

It felt heavier than it should and he paused a moment.

"Sammy?" It came out as too much of a question.

Of _course_ Sam would be haunting the apartment to make sure his widow was ok.

The microwave buzzed loudly and Dean put the salt back, closed the cabinet. "No," he said, to the kitchen. "Not _yet_."

Back in the living room, Jessica was still lying back, hunched uncomfortably on the couch. Dean sat in the spot she was trying not to touch and ate the pizza slices with his hands. On screen two pretty people made invisible people laugh and Dean tried not to watch his brother's widow cry.

"I'm sorry," she said, eventually. "For your loss."

"Where's your family?" he asked, putting the plate down on the glass table.

She pressed a little against his shoulder, leaning just inside the invisible line she'd drawn. "They're all dead."

Dean turned and she fell a little more against his chest. "What? They were all alive at the wedding."

"They were," she gasped a little and held the back of her hand up to her nose. It was a strangely aristocratic gesture, like royalty trying not to feel grief. "When we went to visit them over Christmas, my mom and dad and sister were killed by a drunk driver."

Dean watched her hand, watched her eyes close as she took a few breaths.

"So, who's been here? For you?"

"No one," she said, and opened her eyes, watery and needy. The way she looked at him made him clench up inside, hurt from how much he wanted to help her. Carefully, he put a hand on the side of her face, cupping her cheek and she leaned into his touch, her eyes closed. He remembered when he'd first met her, he's put his palm on her cheek with the same surprise.

She'd smiled then but she wasn't smiling now.

"How'd he die?"

She stood up, pulling away from him and picking up his plate, her hands steady even though she moved quickly.

"I told you. They don't know. His guts were pulled out and he was on his back."

"The alley?" Dean asked.

"Next to a 'massage parlor.'" She walked into the kitchen. "He was working on a case against places like that. I should have known. Everyone thinks I should have known."

He saw her shadow when she turned on the light, moving from trash to sink to dishwasher and he called in, "You didn't even think of the possibility?"

"That my husband was fucking a trafficked foreign whore?" She paused, and exhaled sharply. Then, softer, she said, "I didn't have a clue. He was different, but that wasn't what I thought it was."

"What's the address?" he asked. He muted the goddamned tv, and stretched one arm out. He'd have to stop by Triple-A for maps, or a library for internet access.

She came in and slapped down a stained, crumpled post-it next to his plate. "I threw it away," she said in explanation.

Pocketing it before she could regret giving it to him, he said, "You have a guest bedroom or, uh, couch...?"

"You'll tell me," she paused, arms crossed and backlit by the television. The colors bent around her in dancing lights and he had to force himself to look up. "You'll tell me what was going on with him? He was weird at the end. He wasn't himself."

The pause went on. Finally, he nodded, looking away from the desperation. "Yeah. I'll find out."

She covered her eyes with the heels of her palms and walked towards the bedroom, saying over her shoulder, "Thanks."

"Guess I'm sleeping here," Dean said, loud enough for her to hear.

She shut the bedroom door and he watched the muted tv thoughtfully for a second before standing to see if Sammy had kept any maps around. Boy scout that he was, it was likely. Boy scout that he had been, Dean corrected himself.

There were only a few rooms in the apartment, and Dean walked through, staking out the bedroom, the bathroom and an office. The office was clearly Sam's - a well-organized desk with a pristine laptop turned off on the center of it. The floorboards groaned when took a step and he glanced over his shoulder to make sure Jessica's door stayed closed. He shut the office door quietly and moved across the carpet.

At the desk, things were arranged neatly, inbox and outbox, a shelf for paid bills and for waiting bills. The checkbook was tucked in the front of a drawer.

Dean crouched under the desk and used a flashlight to check for any runes, even the basic 'keep info private' runes that they'd scratched on the underside of motel room tables across the country, where even maids wouldn't find them. Most of what the Winchesters left behind was unnoticed.

Sam wasn't an exception. There was nothing in his drawers that would give him away as anything more than what he appeared to be: a low level attorney working for the SF DA. Just to be certain, Dean pulled out all of the drawers, checked behind them and below them and when he found the small, slender, leather-bound journal, he was relieved.

"Sam," Dean rolled his eyes upwards. "You think you could have made things even easier for me?"

He smirked and leaned back in Sam's chair to do some reading.

Even if it was how they'd found him, it didn't sound like Sam to be going out to brothels and hiring women forced into prostitution. Dean knew that their father had taught them a lot of things, too many violent things for kids to be taught, but he'd always taught them to respect women. It was part of the dogma of their mother. If they didn't respect women, then they wouldn't have any desire to fight and to die for a dead one.

Their mother was fit into a clear case with other women, her hair and her scent preserved so that women would always be remembered as copies of her, made from the same mold with only the appearances different.

Dean wasn't surprised at all how much Jess looked like their mom. It was how things went with Winchesters, and he didn't think that Sam even noticed.

The journal started around the time that Sam had gone to Stanford and Dean almost laughed at how clinical it was. If it had had more clippings and more references to the Demon, it could have been their dad's journal.

 _September 15, 2001 - Two ghouls haunting the Black Stage. Exorcised using Janus's ritual._

It went on like that, no context, just the facts. Who had been killed, what had been exorcised. Not enough entries to make it a real hunter's journal, but more than enough to make it clear that Sam hadn't been ignoring what went bump in the night. Abruptly, around the time that Sam got married, it stopped, and Dean exhaled.

Dead end.

Carefully, he put all the drawers back in, just the way he found them. He pocketed the journal and a map of San Francisco that he'd found neatly stacked next to California maps and maps of Colorado.

That must have been where Jessica's family lived.

There were a few hours until sunrise, and Dean felt exhausted again, the panic and anger burned out of him.

He went to sleep shirtless, hand curled close enough to the cushion that if anything happened, he could pull out the knife that he'd stuffed under it. Dean Winchester had been trained well, and if something had killed his brother, it probably wouldn't stop at one. Things that killed like that stopped at ten, twenty, fifty and only after a hunter had gutted them alive.

Killing Sam meant that it wouldn't get a chance for any more. Sam would be the last one. Sam would be the final victim.

Dean itched to already have blood on his hands.

*****

He woke up suddenly, hand tight on the hilt of his knife. In the kitchen, Jessica was whipping eggs with a fork, scraping it carelessly against the metal bowl; he winced, turning his face into the cushion. The light outside was white, the cloud cover diluting it.

Dean groaned and Jessica asked, "How do you like your eggs?"

His brother was dead and he sat up, shoving the knife awkwardly into the back of his jeans. He rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands, dragging his fingers through his hair.

"Scrambled," he said. "I'm going to take a shower."

After one of his one-night stands had looked through his duffel bag while he was in the shower, he'd learned to bring it in with him and Jessica didn't even turn around when he passed the kitchen doorway.

She was in sweats, her hair pulled back with one of those claw-like clip things that looked more painful than comfortable, wisps of blonde glinting on the back of her neck. The shower was lukewarm and he used the only non-fruity body wash in the shower caddy. He used the more expensive-looking shampoo because he could.

In the steamed mirror, he found a new mark on his arm, not something from El. It looked like a hand had gripped him there, hard. A big hand, a guy's hand, like someone had wanted to shake him. Frowning, he put his own hand there, fingers fitting backwards onto the bruises.

Shaking his head, he said, "Nice, Casper."

Reaching into his duffel, he pulled out a folded shirt. He hadn't had time to do laundry in weeks. Tugging open his bag, he saw that all of his clothes had been washed, folded. The weaponry was on top, still sheathed. He checked the gun safety and was relieved that it was still on.

For a second, he stared at all of it, the awareness that Jessica had gone through his things sat heavy on his chest. She must have washed and folded his clothes, put the bag back together understanding that he was carrying things meant to hurt people.

When he came in, she looked up, startled.

"You smell like..." his plate was on the island, yellow eggs and buttered toast and the sentence only had one end. "Sam," she finished.

"You washed my clothes," he said. He walked towards her and she took a step back.

"I could smell them from my room," she said. "I thought you'd like it."

"Thanks," he said, sharply, like _screw you_. He knew that it made him sound like an asshole, ungrateful, but she'd gone through his _things_.

"I knew who I was calling, Dean," she said. "I want _you_ here."

The emphasis was strange and his eyes narrowed before he caught himself. She looked down, away from him and then opened a drawer in front of her. He thought she'd pull out salt or something, but she pulled out the silver dagger he'd tucked into Sam's suitcase before he left for Stanford.

"I knew who I was calling," she said, again.

"I thought you didn't want me to show up," he countered, reaching to pick up the knife.

She shrugged, and then turned to the sink, running water over the bowl she'd used to mix eggs.

"Sam always used to say that you and your dad take care of other people's problems." She turned around, but there was a certain blankness in the words. They didn't mean that Sam had told her about ghosts and demons. They meant that Sam had told her that what he and Dad did was take care of things. The illusion of normalcy was maintained with him and Dad as thugs, not hunters..

He couldn't stay in the house anymore, with Jessica knowing and not knowing. If she knew about the knives and guns, she knew something, but Sam never would have told her about what they really did. It was a line that was too ingrained to cross.

Dean said, "I'm going to head out, see what I can find."

"You're coming back?" Her voice was low, without the rising hysteria he thought might be more appropriate. She was clenching and unclenching her hands, and blinking rapidly, like she was trying to get rid of something in her eyes.

Something in the sink fell and Dean knew that Sam wouldn't still be around if he thought that Jess was safe from whatever had killed him. Sam had more sense than that.

"I'll be back," he said.

She turned away from him, her control over her grief like a noose. Reaching into a drawer, she pulled out two keys on a plastic Golden Gate Bridge key ring. They looked new.

"Here," she said, offering them over, her hand just slightly unsteady. "So you can get in whenever you need to."

He'd be able to get in even if he didn't have keys, but if he had them at least he wouldn't get arrested. He took the keys, shoving them deep into his pocket next to the address of the massage parlor and his lock picks. The eggs tasted bland on his tongue - no salt, no pepper, too watery. It tasted like she didn't like eggs and he wondered how many mouthfuls of these Sam had choked down out of love.

His grip on the fork was tight and he looked down. "Good eggs," he said, swallowing another mouthful.

"Good," she said, her back against the fridge. "I have to go."

As soon as she was gone, he tossed the eggs down the garbage disposal and bit roughly into the bread. Strawberry jam had always been his favorite.

"I'm leaving," he yelled and shut the door behind him.

By some miracle, the Impala hadn't been towed. It was right where he'd left it, with two tickets on the windshield, pink and bright against the dark car. He crumpled them and tossed them in the back.

As he got into the car, it started raining, gentle enough that he didn't turn on the wipers, just drove and let it all accumulate until the world outside was a Monet of colors. People walked by in blobs and darted out in front of his car, causing him to brake suddenly, sharply. The streets of San Francisco were a funhouse ride of hills and valleys, angles up and down that he didn't know how people walked every day.

The address wasn't in a good neighborhood; he saw the junkies and the homeless. If there was one thing that he got from being a hunter it was couldn't not see the people society forgot. He was one of them, only luckier, and it was hard not to feel a little bit for the people who didn't have the options he did.

He was on the grift, and they were sliding down behind him.

Parking in a street spot, he plugged quarters into the meter and traced back to the alley. It was still marked off with police tape, and he would bet good money that the massage parlor was abandoned until the coast was clear. They'd probably all scattered as soon as the flashing red lights showed up, not caring that they could be witnesses, just knowing that they could be behind bars.

Dean had known a hooker or two.

Where Sam's body had been was taped off, outlined, and the red spilled blood was settled with the fog and the drizzle. Everything glistened and spread, and Dean tried not to get blood on his pant cuffs when he pulled down the fire escape ladder and climbed up to the massage parlor, pushing at blacked-out windows. He found one that cracked open and climbed in, the place silent and abandoned.

The room was casually Spartan, walls hung with dark drapes, a couch and a massage table the only furniture in the room. The carpet was cheap and thin under his boots. There was a box of condoms tucked halfway under the couch, a condom wrapper on one of the couch cushions.

A security camera still blinked red in a corner of the room and he set out to find where it led.

Passing quietly down the hallway, he barely avoided being seen by a petite woman, her hands gnarled with age. The cleaning woman or the caretaker, he couldn't tell. He looked around the room he'd ducked into, the reflective mirrors and leather couch. Makeup was scattered over surfaces and there were costumes hung on a rack. One of the nurse costumes squeaked plastic when he touched it, sliding a finger down.

There was another camera in this room, and he checked to make sure the woman was gone before heading downstairs.

At the bottom of the stairs, he found a small front office, cramped by the huge mahogany desk that took up most of the space. A monitor, missing the computer that went with it, was dark, but the CCTV monitors were still running.

"If I was a recorder, where would I hide," Dean said. The monitors were in real time, and he saw the elderly woman vacuuming one of the dressing rooms.

Reaching into the cabinet, he swore, a rough "fuck." None of the cameras recorded, just went straight to monitor - no footage, no evidence. Good for trials, he guessed.

He left the way he came in, soft feet on the carpet and closing the window when he crawled out. The ledge gave him a long scratch down his forearm, and he hissed when he saw it, feet landing hard on the hard pavement.

"Fuck," he repeated. Because it left him with few leads and fewer hints. A spirit, he thought, must be, always was, but it didn't feel like it. This looked personal, more personal than a haunting. He'd never heard of a ghost breaking open someone's chest before.

He ducked under the police tape and went into the grocery store next door. Round fruit was stacked in crates outside, charms hanging from the entryway. The aisles were cramped with products that had small English translations or no translations at all.

There were a few herbs, left out with spoons and plastic bags that he recognized from making charms and poultices over the years. The girl behind the counter eyed him critically, gum snapping in her mouth.

Dean picked up a bag of candy at random and put it down on the counter, grinning with what he hoped was charm and not _I just stepped in my brother's blood_.

"Hey," he said. "I was wondering if you'd seen this guy."

The picture that he pulled out of his wallet was from the wedding: Sam was in a tux and looked so brilliantly happy to be finally be taking that last step towards normalcy. It was one of the informal photos, Dean on Sam's other side, an arm wrapped around his shoulder. Dean kept it behind a folded picture of them all as a family. He kept it behind the pleased expression on his father's face, his father's hands on him and Sammy, both too young to know what cutting family ties really meant.

The girl snapped her gum and her eyes glanced up at him with pity.

"Sure. He came to see my mom all the time." She jerked her thumb upwards. "Sorry he died."

"Your mom?" Dean asked, clearing his throat and slipping the picture back into his wallet. He couldn't really see Sam playing Dustin in _The Graduate_ ; it was kind of kinky for Mister Handcuffs-are-for- _what?_

The girl raised an eyebrow.

"Can I see your mom?" Dean asked. He glanced at the stairs in the back of the store. He'd just assumed they led to an apartment, not another "place of business."

"She's with a customer now." The girl's hands moved smoothly while ringing him up. "Want an appointment?"

He pulled cash out of his wallet and nodded. "Yeah. Were you here when he died?"

"No," she shook her head. "I don't live here, just come home for the weekends. I go to school at Berkeley. Mom called me, though, said I had to come in to protect her against the -"

The girl broke off and glanced out at the street. Her lips pursed. "Dangerous man. That's all she said."

A customer started talking rapidly in Vietnamese at Dean's elbow and the girl answered with an eyeroll. He stepped back, taking his candy.

The girl refocused on him and said, "Tomorrow, come after lunch. I'll tell her you're on her books."

"Sure." The candy tasted foul in his mouth and he edged out of the store around customers.

The Impala was where he left it, and he was honestly surprised. He didn't expect it gone, but maybe a window broken, someone stealing his tape player.

All of the important stuff was locked in the trunk, no way to get at it if you didn't know it was there. The only other thing he even cared about a little was at Sam's apartment and that wasn't some _thing_ so much as some _one_. Jess was all that was left of Sam, now, and he'd be damned if he was going to let her get hurt in this.

His arm hurt again, where it was bruised, and he reached over to finger the hurt, pressing into it, like he could make it a bone bruise, because hurting on the outside was easier than hurting inside, where he was torn.

Sam's blood was on his shoes, he was sure of it; Sam's blood was all over him and he wanted to retch at the very idea of Sam being gone. His hand was too tight on his arm; he could feel the blood beating under his fingertips.

"I need a drink," he said, and he wasn't sure if he was saying it to himself or to Sam. It wasn't unheard of for ghosts to follow people around, haunt the shell of a person, the way that they could haunt the shell of a home.

Finding a hunter bar wasn't that hard, if you knew where to look, or who to ask. His phone was in his back pocket, but when he flipped it open, it was dead. The black screen was accusing, but at least it explained why Dad hadn't called back.

He found a pay phone on the street, next to a liquor store. A homeless man slept next to it, stretched out on newspapers, his face burned to pink, skin peeled to reveal patchy flesh underneath.

Dean turned so that his back was against the store, not revealed to the street. People brushed by and ignored him. A bus passed, faded white and red.

Ellen's voice was welcome in his ear. "Hello?"

"Ellen, it's Dean," he paused on that, and then said, "Winchester."

Not many people knew who he was in the world and he would've like to think her one of them, but he wasn't sure. Ellen knew a lot of people, and was the steady woman in a lot of people's lives.

"Jesus Christ," Ellen said. "We thought you were dead. Are you alright?"

Dean paused, a little surprised and said, "Yeah. I just -"

"Well, hell, Dean," Ellen's voice turned sharp, critical. "You left Bobby hanging, and it was just dumb luck that Simon McShane was in the area, otherwise Bobby'd be dead."

A horn honked, long, out in the street and Dean said, "I wasn't thinking."

"I can tell," Ellen said. Glasses clattered in the background and Dean heard Jo yell something.

The homeless guy rolled and Dean nudged a cigarette butt with his boot. "Something really big came up," Dean said. "Listen, you know of any hunter's bars in the area?"

Sighing across the distance, he could see Ellen's stance, the way her hand was on her hip, the rag hanging from her jeans. " _What_ area?"

"I'm in San Francisco," Dean said. "I need to find out if anyone was chasing anything big nearby."

"I know a bar," Ellen said. In the pause, he heard more background noise, the clatter and talking. "What's going on, Dean?"

A young kid, hair shaved off, glinting dark under the skin, came out of the store, his hands stuffed into his pants. He had a long scratch across his cheek and Dean closed his eyes. "Nothing."

"Does this have to do with your brother," Ellen paused, clearly trying to remember the name, "...Sam? Isn't he in San Francisco?"

"Where's the bar?" Dean pulled out a pen and scratched the address onto a page of the phonebook attached to the booth. The book was already mutilated beyond recognition, and he ripped out the page without thinking twice.

It was misting again, soft rain that made him shiver. Inside the car he used the map of Oakland to find the place. It was across the bay, downtown Oakland and he'd been in the area once before - something he'd thought was a haunting, but really just a sick pedophile convincing kids that the devil was touching them.

The homeless man was slowly standing up, using the phone both as leverage. His eyes were foggy when he looked at Dean, the mind underneath clearly twisted beyond help. Starting the car, Dean adjusted the rearview mirror without looking at his own eyes.

******

There were a lot of people in the bar for three in the afternoon. More hunters than he expected this early, even at a bar called The Full Moon.

Good hunters watched everyone out of the corner of their eyes, subtly, carefully. Not all hunters were good ones, though. When he walked in, sunlight was at his back and a bruise was visible on his arm; his knife was hidden, but not well enough if you knew where to look. Some of the looks he got were confrontational, people warning him with their eyes that they'd kick his ass and then some.

Dean wasn't stupid, and the knife was to show people that he was just as serious as them. As soon as he said "Winchester," everyone would know who he was, or at least whose son he was, but it didn't hurt to make sure that they knew he was serious. Reputations were built on that, he'd figured out. Especially with the blow-hards that were in most hunter bars.

There was a guy back in the corner, his hair shaved close to his head, wearing a dark jacket that made him look like the shadow he was hiding in. Dean felt the guy's stare settle on the back of his neck as soon as he sat down.

If the guy was trying to pick him up, the come on needed work.

The waitress was pretty, dark skinned with eyes that reminded him a little of Jo, when he first met her. She raised an eyebrow.

"Could I have some whiskey?" Dean asked. He grinned, then said, "Please."

It felt like before, with the girl at the Vietnamese grocery store. The smile felt strained across his face, like it was stretched across a bed of nails.

She poured some into a glass without ice and then left to go fill an order down bar. Hunched over the bar, his feet propped up against the stool leg, Dean knew he was exposed. He felt the tickle of eyes and didn't turn around, not yet.

If he really wanted to draw out someone who was hunting something that could slit Sam open, he'd have to be subtle. That hunter wouldn't be one who'd get into a bar fight unless he wanted to.

When the waitress came back, he smiled again and she looked at him like he'd done a funny trick.

"Hey," he said, jerking his chin.

"Hey," she mimicked, her lips twitching. She spoke with a soft midwestern accent.

"You're not from here," he said, grinning. "I'm Dean. I grew up in Kansas."

"What're you doing here?" she asked.

"Here on a job," Dean said, glancing around; the guy was still watching, his hands open on the table. Turning back, Dean winked at the waitress and grinned. "A real dangerous gig."

There was a brief pause and she looked at him, every bit as jaded as Ellen, but without the bitterness. She looked like she was laughing on the inside. "Really," she said, dryly. "Don't get many travelers around here."

"Ellen told me about this place," Dean said, casually. He finished off his drink. "Another."

"Slow down, cowboy," she said as she poured him a second drink. "Ellen's a nice woman."

"What's your name?" Dean asked. He traced the edge of his glass. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the shadowed guy stand and readjust his coat so that it fell to hide something.

She watched him, then said, "Anna." Her eyes were still distant from him. "What are you looking for, Dean?"

"A partner," he said. "I'm going after something big and I need someone who's up for that. Anyone around here been doing... big game hunting?"

The smile she gave him was just to the side of being sly. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

Dean scratched his phone number under his full name on a dry napkin, passing it over with a smile. If she was like Ellen, bribery would be an insult. "If you do figure out what I'm talking about."

Casually, she tucked the napkin next to the register with a wry twist of her lips. She looked down the bar where the guy from the corner table had come up. He put down forty and said, "Keep the change."

"Sure," she said, taking it to the register. Her shoulders hunched, just slightly, enough that Dean noticed. "See you around, Gordon."

Watching the guy, Dean nodded at him. Greeting. The guy frowned back and left quietly, not silent, but as quiet as Dean had been taught to walk.

"You ok?" Dean asked, when the waitress came back, her face more closed.

"Fine." She shook her head. "I'll keep your number around."

It was a smooth dismissal and so Dean took his drink and found a booth, settling in to watch the flow of everything. No one approached him, but he didn't really expect anyone to, at least not right away. He'd made his point; he was waiting for them. Any hunter worth his salt would wait for Dean to do something interesting first. By the time he was on his fourth beer, the light was fading and he was ready to go, not quite sober, but not drunk.

Driving back to the city felt just this side of crazy. California traffic was infamous at best and murder at worst, and he was about half a sheet to the wind, trying to get from the bar to where his brother had died. It seemed to take longer than he knew it did - moments distended by the extra time it took to think about driving. If he got pulled over, it was done with, so he forced himself to think through his movements rather than let habit take over.

The streetlights were already on when he finally parked back in San Francisco, dim compared to the sunlight. The liquor store was where he remembered it and the payphone receiver swung in a lazy arc.

Dean put it back, stopping the irritated beeping. He paused with his hand on the phone and pulled it to his ear, plugging in quarters and dialing the number from memory.

His father's voice was gruff in his ear and he listened to the new message while watching a neon sign reflect against the glass window of the liquor store.

 _This is John. I'm not available right now, but if it's important, you can call my son Dean at 555-645-9897._

The beep was shrill in his ear.

"What the hell, Dad?" Dean clenched his fist against the phone booth. "You're 'not available'? Sam's dead. _Get available._ "

Hanging up violently, he went into the store and bought liquor on someone else's credit card. The whiskey burned going down, brown paper bag crunching as he adjusted his grip. He made it back to the Impala in short strides, training making him aware of his shoulders, aware of the target he made.

In the back seat, he hunched down, the back of his head against the cool glass, watching light fade from the outside world as he drank. When someone stumbled past, Dean's hand clenched his gun under his seat.

It was filled with rock salt, but salt could do damage, and felt like a bunch of cigarette burns. The guy stumbled on, oblivious. Dean took a long swallow from the bottle before he managed to let go of the gun. Something had killed Sam here, and it was either something he knew how to deal with or it was someone who was sick enough that they needed to be put down like a rabid dog.

There were bullets in his trunk and he took another drink, his eyes tearing from the burn in his throat.

Eventually, he opened the car door, taking a plastic bag full of salt that he kept under the driver's seat with him. The alley was where he remembered it, and he took another drink before spitting out the aftertaste and ducking under the police tape. Standing over the outline of his brother, he said, "Jesus. God, Sam."

He reached out for the wall, to steady himself before he put down the bottle and pulled out the salt. The Ziploc bag hung in his fingers for a bit before he dropped it back in his pocket.

"I'm sorry, Sammy," Dean said. "I... fuck, this is such a fucking mess."

"That's pretty much what we said," someone said from the alley entrance.

It was two detectives, Dean could tell from the way that they walked, like they owned the place. The taller one had his badge out already, flipped it open and closed, tucking it back into his jacket pocket. The shorter one walked like he was in charge, a receding hairline showing the confidence was due to seniority rather than competence. Dean had yet to meet a competent detective.

"Yeah?" Dean asked. "You two on the case?"

He didn't manage it without sarcasm.

"Do you see this, Evans?" The shorter one walked into Dean's space and shoved. "We've got a comedian on our hands."

Without thought, Dean lifted his arm and punched. He knew he had a good right hook. When he was first learning how to fight, Dad had said so, and he'd learned the hard way that Dad didn't say things he didn't mean.

Dad had meant it when he told Sammy to _get out and not come back_. Dad had meant it more when he said that Dean was ready to hunt on his own. The subtleties of tact were lost on his father, and Dean appreciated that sometimes.

Evans had him shoved up against the wall before his partner was even all the way down. Dean's forehead scraped as he twisted, not fighting to get out, just _fighting_. He kicked with his boot before Evans kicked out at his heels, spreading his legs.

"You just assaulted an officer, genius," Evans said as he cuffed Dean.

"Wow," Dean said, his mouth against the brick. It tasted metallic. "Did you come up with that one yourself? Or do you watch _NYPD Blue_ just for moments like this?"

Yanking him off balance, Evans asked, "You ok, Fulmar?"

"Fine." Fulmar cracked his jaw, watching Dean carefully. "Let's take him in."

Evans searched him sloppily, finding the knife immediately, but it wasn't illegal, so he just offered it over to Fulmar, who put it in an evidence bag. When they pulled out his wallet, Dean was glad that he'd forgotten the stolen credit card in the paper bag with the receipt.

"Take a look at this." Evans held out the ID to Fulmar and Dean closed his eyes and ground his teeth together. "You the brother?"

"Shut the fuck up," Dean said, pushing backwards. Blood dripped from his lip when Evans slammed him back against the wall, teeth cutting the skin. He sucked on it angrily.

"Let's go," Fulmar said shortly.

He got a good look at them when they shoved him in the car; Fulmar's wedding band glinted in the dark, and Evans had more than a little beer gut hanging over his belt. He'd remember them for later. Fleeing from the law was easier when you remembered what the law looked like.

The back of the car was about as standard as Dean ever saw, a grating to make sure he couldn't get through, doors without handles framing the ripped seats. "Hey, I can get tetanus from these seats."

"Yeah? And I can arrest you for this shiner," Fulmar slid into the driver's seat and glanced at Dean in the rear-view mirror. "You really want to be an asshole today?"

Dean did.

At the station, they chained his cuffs to the bottom of the table before leaving him there. _Mind games_ Dean thought, but didn't say anything. He ducked his head down, trying to think clearly through the haze of whiskey. He slowly pulled out a lock pick from inside his cuff and got to work on the cuffs. It was awkward, and his wrist hurt, but if he was going to get out, he'd need his hands.

They came back in with coffee, silent. Fulmar took the closer seat, leaving Evans to loom in the background. Dean wasn't sure why. He'd be more likely to believe that Fulmar would punch him than Evans.

"Benson, Stabler," Dean said, glib. It was the only thing he could think of.

"So, what were you doing there, Dean?" Fulmar leaned forward, hands clasped and Dean glared at him. "You think that we'd assume it was a _random_ Winchester apologizing to his brother where he killed him?"

"I didn't kill Sam," Dean said, rattling the cuffs. He nearly lost his grip on the pick and grabbed it at the last second. "I wasn't even here."

"Yeah. Right. Nice scratches you got on your neck."

Dean snorted. "Those were from Jessica, not Sam."

Fulmar watched him. "Guess violence runs in the family, huh, Dean?" When Dean paused, Fulmar pressed on. "You like shoving her around too? You gonna give her a nice set of bruises now that Sam's gone?"

"The _fuck_ ," Dean said. His head hurt. "Sam wouldn't hit Jess."

Smirking, Fulmar said, "So, what, she just likes it rough? Those scratches look painful, Dean. But, maybe you thought Sam was doing her a little too rough."

" _I wasn't here,_ " Dean said. "There's an alibi and a nice thing called the First Amendment that says you don't have anything."

"First Amendment is the right to free speech, idiot." Evans raised an eyebrow.

"Really?" Dean frowned. "Huh. What's the one about 'innocent until proven guilty,' then?" If he had a few more minutes, he could get the cuffs unlocked and then as soon as they left the room...

Well. He'd figure something out.

"I'm sure you've got a great alibi. I'm sure when we go to see her, Jessica'll say that you weren't the one who messed her up. Just like Sam wasn't the one who busted her lip." Evans pushed himself off the wall and put his face too close to Dean's. Slowly, Dean tucked the pick back up his sleeve, sliding it back into the cuff. "She call you after that? Ask you to come protect her? Play the big hero for her?"

"No," Dean growled. He flared at Evans.

Evan's hand came down hard on the table, "Don't lie, Winchester. You wanted to stop your brother from hitting your girlfriend. She'd have to be pretty fucking close to scratch you up like that. You start fucking her before or after you killed Sam?"

"I'm not having sex with her," Dean said. "And Sam wouldn't hit a girl."

"See, that's what she was saying when the ER nurse was stitching her up." Evans stepped back, pulling photos out of a folder, and tossing them down on the table. Sam's eyes were closed, body rolled to an odd angle. Next to him was a newspaper, the front page of _The San Francisco Chronicle_ obscured by red and purple, white.

Dean recognized a disembowelment. For a second, he paused, breath jerky, trying to figure out what type of thing could make such a clean slice through fabric and flesh. The pictures from the morgue were worse, Sam white and bared down to the waist, the gaping hole where he used to have organs sagging a little bit.

There wasn't any bruising.

Reaching out with his cuffed hands, he picked up one from the crime scene, fingers smearing the edge of the photo. He was sweating, and the photo squeaked when he rubbed. In the alley it looked worse, because he'd been there and he could see Sam's heart on top of the pile, arteries ripped messily out. It hadn't been exact, just something reaching in and tearing at whatever they found.

"You aren't even surprised, asshole. Jesus, you don't even flinch looking at that," Evans was right in his ear, voice disgusted. "You've seen this before, you sick bastard. And I'm going to figure out how you did this and _get_ you for it."

Evans pulled out a close-up of the pile, Sam's hand curled next to it, his wedding ring brown with dried blood. "You don't even care that he was your brother. Bet you went home still bloody and fucked her silly."

Dean lunged, wrists snapping back to the table, but his body slamming into Evans's, his forehead making a satisfying crack against Evans's nose. Fulmar was stronger than he looked and shoved Dean back against the table before he could pull back to kick Evans hard.

Cheek pressed against the cool metal table, Dean breathed in and out, and thought about his hands around Evans's neck. He could hear Fulmar breathing right behind him, using his weight to keep Dean on the table. Evans was swearing nasally, breathing loudly through his mouth.

Fulmar's voice was firm, "Evans, get the fuck out of here."

"I'm not going to let him get away with-"

" _Evans_ ," Fulmar said, and Dean gritted his teeth. He'd go ten rounds with Evans, happily, even with the handcuffs on. When he closed his eyes, he saw Sam's stomach caved in, empty of anything he'd need to live.

The door opened and slammed closed. After a pause, Fulmar let Dean up.

"What's your alibi?" Fulmar was staring straight at Dean, his squint daring Dean to try something.

Dean rattled off Ellen's number. He'd been helping her break up a bar fight. He couldn't remember Lindsay's number and Ellen was good covering for him. He hoped she wasn't still mad at him because of the Bobby thing.

"You're partner must've just come back from sensitivity training," Dean said. "That was pretty sensitive brutality, for a guy that carries a gun."

Dean checked his teeth with his tongue; he could already feel heat of blood rushing along his jaw, where it had hit the table. It'd be a colorful bruise later.

"We got some pictures of you and her looking pretty cuddly at the wedding," Fulmar said. He took a drink of coffee, calmly. "And a lot of people who remember you and Sam fighting. You think we won't get enough to prove you did this, you're dreaming. Don't leave town, Dean. I'd hate to have to call in the FBI and find out what they have on you."

Fulmar reached down to unlock the cuffs and tug them off.

They didn't return the knife and Dean stood outside the station for a second, shivering in the cold air before shoving his hands into his pockets and starting to walk.

*****

Jess was asleep on the couch when he used the key to get in. She had the remote in her hand, her fingers wrapped around it like it was the edge of a security blanket.

Her mouth was open, soft breaths disturbing her hair. Against the arm of the couch, her neck was curled at an odd angle. Sitting down on the foot table, Dean watched her for a bit, the way that she slept fitfully, hand clenching and loosening.

"Sam," she said, gasping.

Dean rocked forward almost like someone pushed him.

"Subtle, Sammy," Dean said, rolling his eyes. But he leaned over her, necklace falling loose from his shirt.

Carefully, he pulled the remote out of her hand, setting it down. Then he wrapped one arm under her legs, the other behind her back. Her eyes opened slowly and watched him, her palm resting against his chest.

Their bed was a mess and smelled like Sam. The memory of it hit him when he lay her down; his brother had slept on the other side of this bed. She nuzzled against the pillow, her tank top riding up a little when she turned.

He took a step backwards, boot catching on the carpet and her hand snapped out to grab his shirt. Fisting it, she said, "Stay."

He looked down to her hand, and then stepped forward, sitting at the edge of the bed, her legs fitting warm against his back. "Stay," she said, again, softly, her eyes shutting, hand still clutching.

Watching her sleep, Dean wondered if Sam had ever stopped to watch it, the way she breathed. She had a birthmark up next to her eyebrow and he brushed back her hair to see it. The death had taken a toll on her, even in sleep he could see under her eyes the dark smudges of makeup and lack of sleep.

After too much time, he got up, freeing his shirt from her hand.

The living room was cold without her almost wrapped around him, but he'd signed up for cold a long time before this. His cell phone charger was in his bag, and he found a socket.

After turning it on, he scrolled down to find the name he was looking for.

"Hey," he said. "You owe me one. I've got something I need you to do."

On the other end, Jack said, "What?"

"Come to San Francisco. I'll meet you at a bar." Dean fished out the matchbook from The Full Moon and recited the address.

"I'll be there tomorrow night," Jack said, hanging up abruptly.

Evans and Fulmar were going to be problems, unless he dealt with them. Dean didn't want outside help on this one, but he couldn't risk the boys in blue getting in his way.

Setting his phone next to the couch, Dean wandered back into Sam's office. It smelled like something he could almost put his finger on, something burnt.

Looking up, Dean noticed the fire alarm hanging open, battery pulled out, and he gave a small snort. "Just like old times, Sam."

Sam's chair was a wooden table chair, matching the set in the kitchen. It looked Ikea-new and Dean could see the two of them shopping for furniture.

He sat down in it, legs spreading uneasily. The air was warmer in here than in the living room. There was only a small window, high up on the wall, covered with white curtains.

A breeze brushed his cheek and Dean closed his eyes.

*****

He woke on the floor, his cheek pressed against the rug, the uneven floorboards digging into his back. He had dreamed of sulfur and yellow eyes, someone looming over him.

He had dreamed of Sam, holding his own guts, looking at him accusingly. There were new bruises on his body when he took off his shirt, along his chest, ones that the cops hadn't given him. It looked like someone had tried to wake him, both hands on his shoulders.

There was a deep bruise on his neck, like a thumb, or a mouth.

He started the shower, turning away from the mirror. It was too long since Sam died and Sam wasn't quite gone. Under the water, he wished that Sam would be less of an idiot about these things.

"This isn't going to end well, Patrick Swayze," Dean said.

In the kitchen, Jess was making toast, the tub of margarine next to Smuckers jelly. The butter knife glinted in the light and Dean wondered if she'd ever held a real knife, the type that could do some damage.

"I got picked up by the cops yesterday," he said.

She paused, knife halfway across the bread. Her eyes were wide, surprised. "Are you ok?"

"I'm fine," he lied. His shoulder hurt, and he hadn't shaved because of the scrapes across his cheek. "You didn't tell me that Sam hit you."

"He didn't," she laughed low, continuing to butter her bread.

"They said that he put you in the ER."

He watched her, the way her eyes were averted, the way she twisted the knife handle between her fingers, ground the jelly down against the bread. All the signs of nervousness.

"They're lying," she said, still not looking at him.

Automatically, Dean reached out, his hand on her wrist before he could think about it. "Why didn't you tell anyone?"

Under his fingers, the bones of her wrist were delicate; she twisted them desperately.

"Let go." She looked up at him and her pupils were wide, frightened.

He let go, stepping back, putting up his hands like she had a gun on him. "Jessica. Jess."

"You think I _wanted_ everyone to know?" The butter knife was still clutched in her hand, knife edge parallel to her wrist. "You think I wanted to be some white trash, some _statistic_?"

Sharply, Dean said, "You didn't say he'd changed that _much_."

She backed up even farther, pressing her back against the refrigerator. "He hadn't- he didn't- one day, out of nowhere." She looked up suddenly, wiping at her eyes with her free hand. "He came in and he looked so- his eyes were-"

The kitchen was silent.

"And then I remember calling a cab to get to the ER. When he got home, after, it was like he didn't even remember it, like it hadn't been him."

"It probably wasn't," Dean said, letting his hands down. He shifted his feet and thought about all the different things that could take Sam's place, use his face to hurt the people he loved. Shapeshifters, night shades - the list was longer than he could check.

With a torn gasp, Jess dropped the butter knife, wiping at both of her eyes. "Fuck you," she said, her steps swift across the apartment.

He caught her wrist, lunging for her.

"I'll scream," she said, almost calm, something burning under her words. It sounded like desperation.

He dropped her wrist and she grabbed the keys hanging from a hook by the door, the jacket on the coat stand. The door slammed behind her.

The apartment still smelled like something had been burned, and he went to check to make sure it wasn't a piece of forgotten toast. It wasn't and he chewed on her toast while he thought about the different possibilities.

"You know," he said, conversationally, "you could be a little more helpful here, Sammy."

The apartment was silent and above him he heard someone moving around, their feet heavy and slow.

"No. Right. Of course you don't want to help me find whatever did this!" Dean picked up the plate and dropped it into the sink, glancing back in when the plate shattered.

Pulling over the garbage can with one hand, he picked out the biggest piece of it. The place was still spotless, and he didn't think to use gloves with the little pieces; he let them bite into his fingertips and bloody the white porcelain. When it was clean, he stood over the garbage, pulling out the slivers until the rest were too bloody or too deep to pull out and then he went looking for the first aid kit Jess had used on his neck.

He found tweezers and pulled out the rest over the toilet, dropping them in.

"You know, I heard of this 'shifter once that used to like keeping his victims around after. It would serve you right to be some 'shifter's take out menu from the 'I'm a Douche' menu."

He couldn't find the last piece of porcelain, even though he felt it, digging under his skin like a splinter. Glaring, he dropped the bloody tweezers back into the box and washed his hands, taking time to put band-aids over his fingertips.

It was almost lunchtime, so he grabbed his coat, the leather settling familiarly over his shoulders. Shutting the door, he heard something else break in the kitchen. The band-aides felt rough and real against his eyes. Bandages felt tangible in a way that the bruise on his neck didn't.

The city was cold outside, wind cutting up the hill when he got into the car. For a while he sat inside the Impala, listening to her warm up. Setting her in gear, he merged into traffic, cutting off a hybrid.

"Hippies," he said. His fingers beat an ache in tune with his heartbeat. "All free love and bad driving."

The joke didn't feel funny without anyone else there.

This time, he found a lot somewhat nearby, just legitimate enough that he didn't think that they'd actually steal his stereo, even if they'd overcharge him by twenty dollars. He rolled his eyes and walked the three blocks to the grocery.

When he walked in, the same girl was working the register, her head down, reading a textbook. She held a highlighter between her fingers, spinning it casually.

"Hey," he said, watching the way that she startled, her other hand reaching for something under the counter.

"Oh, it's you," she said. "I told her that you were coming, she's upstairs waiting."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Just go up?"

"Yeah." She turned back to her textbook, dismissive.

Shrugging, Dean started up the narrow stairs in the back. The security wasn't that great. He wondered what they did if the police raided.

The stairway was narrow and the door at the top was painted black. He knocked, heard someone inside move to open the door.

It was a smaller woman, wearing jeans and a silk button up shirt. He could almost make out the resemblance to her daughter, but he really didn't see the attraction.

"Hey, I'm," he paused. He had four different federal IDs in his wallet. "I'm Sam's brother."

Her face was still, but her lips moved just slightly before she spoke. "Come in."

She stepped back and he didn't see any furniture that would be good to fuck on, just a table with a tea pot and two small hand painted cups in the center. "Sit down."

"I didn't come here for business," Dean said, suddenly.

The woman sat down at one end of the table, and said, "My daughter said that you think Sam was having..." She paused and continued, "With me."

Dean sat opposite, his cheeks hot, "Well, she didn't _deny_ it."

"You can call me Mrs. Nguyen." She reached across to pour tea. "He talked about you often, Dean."

Taking the tea, Dean grinned, tried for casual, "Thanks." The idea of Sam talking about him at all made his chest hurt, the bands around his rib cage tighten.

He took a sip, forcing himself not to wince at the bitterness. The room smelled like incense, numbing his nose to whatever other odors were found under the heavy scent. "That sure hits the spot, Mrs. Nguyen. Since he wasn't coming for... you know, why was he stopping by?"

"Your brother came to me because I know more about his troubles than he did."

"With his relationship?" Dean asked.

"With his demon," she said, taking a small sip of her own tea.

Some tea splashed onto his hand when he put down the cup. "What are you talking about?"

"He came to me because I'm more familiar with the type of demon he was having problems with." She watched him calmly, not adjusting her clothes or playing with her cup. She had none of the nervous tics that Dean had been taught to recognize as the evidence of a lie.

"What demon?" Dean asked, leaning forward.

"He doesn't have a name. Most hunters don't know how to deal with the powerful ones."

Possession. If Sam knew that he was being possessed... if he'd had enough control to come talk to Mrs. Kung Fu Harry Potter.

Well. It turned the hunt into something different. Now he had to find a demon that would kill before it would let its host go.

"How were you helping him?" Dean asked. His hands wrapped all the way around the cup of tea and he was watching her carefully as she thought before she spoke, the way that her eyes focused insistently on his. She didn't look away, even when she spoke.

"Some herbs," she said. "Some prayer. He asked my opinion on some ideas that he'd read about."

"Did it work?" Dean asked.

At that she did look away, her lips open for a slight sigh. "He died before I found out. He was supposed to come visit the night he was killed."

"And you're worried about the demon that possessed him?" Dean asked. "The guy that you told your daughter about."

Mrs. Nguyen set her cup down neatly in the center of a dish. "Are you going to find what did this, Dean?"

He watched her fingers lace together, wrinkled from work rather than age. When he looked into her eyes, he was certain. "Yes."

"You'll kill it. And then I won't be worried." She looked at him seriously. "Sam used to take notes all the time. You should look for his book."

Dad's journal had rubbed off on one of them, Dean thought. Dean was more a _Playboy_ kind of reader himself, but Sam had always had a head for Dad's sort of organization, thorough and systematic with a hint of brilliant chaos thrown in.

"Do you know where he kept it?" Dean asked.

Snorting, Mrs. Nguyen rolled her eyes up. "No. But figure it out fast, Dean."

"Hey, did you learn your stuff in Vietnam?" Dean asked. Because if it was an imported demon, that was a whole different ballgame. Imports tended to run like imported car parts: either cheap and easy to break or durable and able to outlast the end of civilization.

"I was born here," she said, dryly. "So was my daughter."

"Do you know anything else?" Dean asks. "About the possession?"

Mrs. Nguyen took a sip of tea, slow and delicate. "He was running scared."

It didn't narrow anything down, but when he was a kid Sam had taken a gun from their dad and faced down a monster in the closet. Dean trusted Sam's fear, could already feel the muscles in his back knotting.

"Thanks," he said. Standing, he straightened his coat. "I can give you my number in case the guy comes back."

A girl against the big bad wolf was too Little Red Riding Hood for his sensibilities. Anything that could take down Sam could kill Mrs. Nguyen in ten seconds, even with the runes he'd noticed painted on her windows.

She took the number he scratched on a gas receipt and nodded at him, hands clasped in front of her. "Find it."

The table near the door shook when he crossed the room and she asked suddenly, "Who was Mrs. Tyler?"

He twisted the doorknob under his hand, back and forth. Mrs. Tyler had had long brown hair and wore floral print skirts to school. He didn't remember her that well, only that she used to wait with Sammy for their father, even when he showed up two hours after school got out.

"His third grade teacher," Dean said.

The pause was thick in the air. The only reason he remembered Mrs. Tyler at all was because before he left, Sam had said that she had said he could go to college, that he was smart. That he was better than that.

Scratching his thumbnail across his eyebrow, he came off with a dark crescent and blew it off his finger.

"Was he still in touch with her?"

"No," Dean shook his head. After Sam had left, Dean had gone back to the school, gone to the graveyard. Dug up her corpse, buried in a black velvet dress. When velvet burned it smelled worse than silk burning, but the smell of burning flesh covered it quickly.

"He used to speak of her... often." Her voice was quiet, the unsaid question audible under the soft noise of her tea cup on its plate.

"She's dead."

He let himself out, feet fast and heavy on the stairs, hitting the floor hard. At the register, Mrs. Nguyen's daughter raised an eyebrow, and Dean grinned at her, cheeky and shining false. "Thank your mom for me."

Smirking, she turned back to her reading again, the highlighter twirling round and round between her fingers.

He skipped past the lot for a second, stopping by a telephone booth, plugging his dad's number into the phone again. He pressed the phone between his ear and shoulder and listened to it ring.

Digging through his pocket, he pulled out the house key that Jess had given him, shoved it into his front pocket, then searched through his jacket. He knew that he'd put the book somewhere, and he didn't remember putting it in his duffel - don't leave things where you don't want people as nosy as you to find them.

In an inside pocket of the jacket, he found it, the half-filled out journal, stopping long before the time he needed. But, Nguyen had said that he had a notebook, so it couldn't be the only one. There had to be a twin hidden even better than the first.

The answering message kicked in as Dean was rolling his eyes at Sammy. Always using the most complicated spells he could, using all that Latin and herbs when a good old salt and burn would do the trick.

"Dad. Call me. I really could use your help here." He turned away from the wind, his eyes closed tight against it. "Something was possessing Sam. I think it might have been a demon."

Hanging up, Dean took out his car keys and flipped them over his fingers. That should catch Dad's attention. Even if he was just as cold and unfeeling as Sam always said he was, the word "demon" would at least make him pay notice. Son dead, doesn't call, but even though Dean didn't think it was _the_ Demon, probably just some minor one playing tricks with its food, Dad would hear what he wanted to.

He sat in the car, staring at the little book again, Sam's narrow writing slanting across the page.

It was dinner time and he grabbed a burger on the other side of the bay, the only white guy in the joint. He wondered what made him more conspicuous, the color of his skin or the gun tucked underneath his jacket.

Even knowing that the cops were probably watching him, he couldn't stop carrying it. It was filled with real bullets now, rock salt for ghosts, bullets for flesh-and-blood people with demons living under their skin. He stole some napkins on his way out, because you could never tell when napkins would be useful. Checking the oil, mopping up ketchup, staunching a knife wound.

He peeled off the band-aids, picking at the cuts that weren't bleeding anymore. His fingertips felt damp and new, white from where the bandage had been pressing all day.

It was dark when he got to the bar, parking in back next to two beat-up cars and a pickup. The Impala was filthy, but even under the grime of road travel, she looked like the prettiest girl at the dance.

He headed first for the bar, not making a show of it this time. He'd made his point. It was the same bartender, Anna, her hair pulled back from her eyes with blue clips.

"Thanks," he grinned at her until she rolled her eyes and walked away. Jack slid up beside him, hair different from the last time Dean had seen him. Dean wondered how much the trickster had control over his own body.

"Hey," Jack said, lip twisting. "C'mon, I made us some girls."

Dean glanced back at the booth that Jack pointed to, the girls tan and long-legged, one in a cowgirl hat, the other in a vinyl skirt. Cowgirl winked and sucked a cherry into her pretty little mouth.

Shaking his head, Dean said, "Not tonight, Jack."

"There's always time for girls, my friend. _Always_." Jack slapped his shoulder and Dean looked at him, irritated.

"Dude." He swallowed some beer and said, "I've been keeping up with you. Did the frat guy really need to _slow dance_?"

"You said 'no killing' so I got creative," Jack said. He sighed happily. "That one was pure genius."

"I have a job," Dean interrupted, before Jack could start any more reminiscing. He might get where the guy was coming from, because who couldn't appreciate a healthy dose of T&A, but he wasn't in the mood.

"Tell me," Jack tried for a serious face but it came off warped, ironic.

"Two SF cops here. They're on my case." He didn't say any more. Sammy's death was impossible to describe. It was way too intimate to share with someone he'd almost killed.

"Names?" Jack took a drink of his cocktail lazily, waving his fingers at the girls in the booth.

"Fulmar and Evans," Dean said. "I just need them distracted enough that they aren't doing their job."

"They're messing with a hunt." Jack nodded like he knew what he was talking about.

With one nail, Dean scratched at the bar top, rubbing at an old stain from some unnamed spill. He didn't respond to Jack.

"Sure. I can take care of them." Jack twirled his straw and Dean wondered why no one had ever told him that drinking with a straw made him look like a demented ten-year-old. One with a penchant for mass murder and torture.

"No killing," Dean ordered, like he was saying, "bad dog."

Jack flinched. "Yeah, yeah, I remember. It's kind of hard to forget what with the whole impaled-on-a-wooden-stake thing."

Standing, Dean put down money for the beer and looked hard at Jack. "You have my number."

"Bye to you too, Little Miss Sunshine."

When Jack walked back to the girls, Dean could hear one of them say, "What crawled up his ass and died?"

"Sam," Dean answered, fingering one of the new bruises. "Always did mess up my plays."

At the doorway, he waited for a response from Sam. Getting none, he shrugged and headed back to the Impala, moving the gun to a more comfortable position before he turned on the car. Night had fallen, and the streetlamps and neon lights were the only things lighting the darkness.

His hands gripped the wheel tightly, he didn't even allow them to stray to turn on the radio. After a few minutes of driving, he relaxed his jaw with an audible crack. Angrily, he wiped his nose, rubbed one eye and then the other as he passed under a bridge, the change audible in the Impala's wheels.

Driving back into the city was like driving into a patch of cloud. It didn't hit the car, but arched up over the bridge when he crossed to get back into the city. He wondered if the lights would stand out in the darkness, glowing orange in fog cover.

The passenger seat was empty beside him and Dean could imagine Sam there, falling asleep or reading. Sam had always been able to read in the car. Reading in the car just made Dean feel sick to his stomach.

The apartment was dark when he got in, instead of turning on lights, he called out, "Jess?"

No one responded.

"Sam?"

Sam stayed silent, but he could feel a draft of cool air and he moved towards it, finding a window open in Sam's office.

The floors creaked under his feet and he walked over to shut the window. Outside, in the darkness, he thought he saw someone, crouched behind a car across the street, but when he shaded his eyes, there was no one there. He couldn't get over the feeling he'd had since the bar, that someone was following him.

It couldn't be Jack. Jack wouldn't have the courage to take him on when he was hunting. Once, Dean had shoved a wooden stake halfway through Jack's chest, almost brushing his heart and since then, Jack had given him the wide berth of a wolf finding out that someone else is the alpha of the pack.

The floorboard shifted under his feet and Dean swore, kicking at the carpet. It'd probably take forever for the super to get around to fixing it, and Jess might twist an ankle if she ever came in.

Cursing, he pulled back the huge rug that Sam had put on the floor and blinked.

"Halle-fuckin'-lujah, Sam. Finally some help from the great beyond."

One board was clearly out of place, fitted almost exactly to the floor except where it curled up on the edge, showing what he'd been tripping on.

Using a pocket knife, he pried it up and squinted down. In the space beneath was a small, narrow wooden box surrounded by the usual paraphernalia of hunting. Dean took out the knives and rock salt, the herbs and the incense. Then, he reached for the box, warm under his fingers and well worn.

He opened in carefully. Inside were two small bottles full of dark ink and a small brush, tip narrow. Underneath them was a folded piece of paper, a set of three interlocking runes inked on it. He didn't recognize any of them, but they looked dangerous.

"What the hell, Sammy." He traced his finger along one of them, thought it would cut.

Folding the paper back up, he pocketed some of the useful supplies. It was the girl scout motto, Dean thought: always be prepared to do business. He shoved the rest back in, putting the board back just like he'd found it.

As a key turned in the lock, he straightened the rug and walked out into the living room. Jess stood in the doorway watching him. When he held up his hands in a "surrender" gesture, she took a step into the apartment and closed the door behind her.

"Where'd you go?" Dean asked.

"Out." She took a few steps towards him, nervous. She rubbed at her arm where he'd grabbed her. "You can't ever do that again or I'll call the cops."

"I won't," he said.

"Did you find out anything about Sam today?" She choked on the name and fiddled with her ring finger. He saw the gleam of gold in the darkness.

He almost told her about Mrs. Nguyen and the possession and that Sam was probably trapped inside his own body, screaming from inside his own mind. He almost told her about demons and possessions and the thing that killed his mother.

She wouldn't look at him, her eyes glancing over his shoulder, her jaw clenched. He shook his head. No. No new news about Sam's death.

"Are you ok?" he asked.

Her jacket was too big for her, he noticed. It was black leather, hanging over her hands, fingertips visible as white against the black. She shook her head and brought her hands up to her face, burying her face in them to sob.

Before he could think, he crossed the room, wrapping his arms around her.

"Shhhhhh," he soothed. "It's ok. Shhhhhh."

Dean hated crying girls, the way that they sounded so vulnerable, whatever made them strong and attractive lost to helpless tears. Her arms wrapped around his back and he caught the scent of char again, and winced away a sneeze.

Her breasts were pressed up against his chest and her mouth was on his throat She was talking into his neck, her lips warm and real against the side. When he rocked her a little, she exhaled against his skin. He shuddered.

One of her hands moved up his back to catch warm and hot against his neck, still torn up. He let her pull him down until their lips were almost touching, hers moving silently like she was trying to give him a message through the movement alone.

He kissed her.

Jess tasted hot, like cinnamon and chocolate, like coffee. Underneath, he could taste alcohol, familiar where his tongue touched hers. Her kiss was impatient, lips open and eager; she pushed herself against him.

Suddenly, she broke away, her head twisting. She pushed at his shoulders until he released her, stepping back, hard and panting.

"I'm sorry," he said, breaking the silence. He'd kissed Sam's _wife_. He'd kissed Sam's _widow_. Even if Sam was playing it Casper instead of Bruce Willis, that had to burn.

In the light from outside, he couldn't tell if she was still crying. She turned away, wrapping the jacket around her tightly, then suddenly struggling against it. Her shoulders rose and fell sharply as she shrugged out of the jacket, dropping it with a heavy sound on the floor.

"It was his jacket. I went to a bar because I wanted someone to look at me and want. I wanted to feel someone on top of me." She paused, and continued without looking at him. "I got to a bar and I realized that it even smelled like him. And that I was still wearing my wedding ring."

Her voice went soft and needy and she stepped forward again, her body nearly touching his. Gently, she picked up one of his hands and set it against her face; he could feel the heat in her cheeks, the warmth of her skin.

"Help me, Dean."

When he kissed her this time, he kissed her gently, more gently than he thought he could kiss anyone, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, let him guide her back into the bedroom. He got a foot inside before it hit him again.

Her shirt was off and she was running her fingers up under his when he stopped her.

"Sorry. I can't." They were both wrapped in shadow and he let her rest her forehead against his chest for a second, felt his whole body want her.

She stepped back and took off her pants, revealing lace underwear underneath, matching her bra. Then she got into bed with slow, exact motions. She pulled up the covers over the lace cups of her bra and settled, her breathing evening out into a fake sleep.

For a while he watched, then turned and went back to the couch, stripping off his shirt and belt. He unlaced his boots, taking the time to stay curled over them.

"I hope you appreciate what I give up for you, Sam," Dean said. He didn't look up, waited for the beer bottle to the head that he deserved. The ache for Sam was back, a tear inside his heart that felt like he was dying.

Jessica was pretending to sleep in the room next to him and she'd open her arms and part her thighs and let him have a moment of peace, but Sam would be there, too, watching and judging. He'd be letting his brother down by sleeping with his wife and Dean would sooner turn himself in for murder before he hurt Sam like that.

Dean pressed on a bruise and watched the empty apartment. The blood all over the alley stained the back of his eyes and he could almost see how Sam had been laid out, guts to the side of him. Had Sam been living when they'd started yanking those out?

When he closed his eyes, he could almost see the face of it.

Shaking his head, he stood and walked over to where Jess had dropped the coat, feeling for it in the dark. His fingers brushed leather and he pulled it up to his chest, balling it and shoving it under his head. He could still smell Sam on it, muted by Jess's perfume.

Asleep, he dreamed of Sam smiling, holding out his intestines to Dean.

*****

The next morning, Jess was still asleep when Dean woke. He stood in the doorway for a moment, watching her breathe in and out, soft sounds that made him want to crawl into bed behind her, let her cry in his arms. She sounded as hurt as he felt, a wounded animal licking its cuts.

He found a bowl in the kitchen and filled it with raisin bran, eating it over the kitchen sink. He took a shower quickly, checking himself all over for new bruises, but there wasn't anything and he wondered if Sam was angry at him because of Jess.

Picking up his boots on his way out the door, he put them on in the hallway like a one night stand. Beside him, the door opened suddenly, and Jess was standing there, her eyes dark and tired.

"Did you eat?" she asked.

"Yeah." He leaned back against the wall, looking away from her eyes, from the way that her robe curved down her chest.

"Will you be back?" she asked.

"Yeah," he nodded.

"Ok." She sounded softer than before. "Could you do me a favor and pick up Sam's stuff from his office? I can't ... I can't go over there."

Her hand dipped into her robe pocket and came out with a business card.

 _Samuel Winchester_

He traced over Sam's embossed name with his thumb.

"Sure. I can do that." He vaguely remembered how to get there. He'd gone to check the place out the last time that he'd been in San Francisco, driven around the building without going in. It'd probably be the same as every government office anywhere, he'd rationalized.

"Maybe they'd know why he was acting weird," she suggested, then glanced down and nodded firmly, shutting the door behind her.

He jogged down the stairs to pick up the car before the meter maid came by and fined him. It was a foggy morning and he could almost feel the overcast sky on top of him, overbearing. The city was alive outside, but it was all under the darkness of the sky, the hopelessness of the weather.

One of the cuts on his thumb had started bleeding again. When he put it in his mouth, groping for a napkin, it stung and he winced. He found a napkin in his glove compartment, shoving aside a squeeze bottle full of holy water that he'd taken from the last Catholic church he'd stopped at. No one did holy water quite like the Catholics.

A couple of blocks away from Sam's building, he found a towering parking structure and took a ticket at the entrance. There were suits all around him and he felt obvious in his jeans and jacket. His whole outfit screamed that he didn't belong.

At the door, he flashed his US Marshal license to explain the gun. They waved him through a metal detector and he checked Sam's business card again for the floor.

In the elevator, he grinned at a fine-looking chick, in her Ms. Hot Lawyer get-up and then stopped. She'd probably known Sammy.

When he got off at Sammy's floor, he had to ask three people where Sam's desk was, and found a small office next to the copy room.

"I'm here for his things," Dean said, to the other guy in the office. "I'm a friend of Jess's."

"Oh," the guy nodded. He offered his hand and Dean shook briefly. "I'm Dennis. I knew Sam before he -"

Dennis stopped and looked faintly embarrassed. He was shorter than Dean, and wore glasses like they were a natural part of his face. He was slightly hunched, had the look of a perpetual academic. His tie was tied short, the thin end longer than the thick.

On a hunt, Dean would have sussed the guy out as in the closet, but he figured that it wasn't necessary here. He picked up one of the pictures of Jess on Sam's desk and looked at it.

"Hey, do you have any boxes? I didn't even think about it."

Dennis was almost too easy to read. He helped get boxes and explained the random post-its on Sam's desk (one for a case that was over, two from detectives about an open case on credit card fraud). He shook his head when Dean asked about any cases with sex trafficking.

"That was what was so weird. If he'd been there to get a deposition ... but he wasn't." Dennis fidgeted with the end of his tie, picking at a loose thread. "How's Jessica doing?"

"She's holding up," Dean said. He looked at the box filled with all of Sam's personal things and blinked for a second. "Hey, I completely forgot, is there any way you can get your boss's card? Jess wanted it in case anything came up."

"Sure," Dennis nodded, eagerly. "Sure."

Dean closed the door behind him and pulled out the bottom drawer, searching under it, behind it. Nothing. No little black book with Sam's personal history with the hot and damning. By the time Dennis got back, Dean was leaning casually on the desk he'd searched it top to bottom.

"Here's mine, too, if she needs anything. I'll drop off anything if I find it."

One of Dennis's buttons had come undone in the middle of his shirt and Dean tried not to look at it. The whole situation was surreal. He couldn't imagine Sam in this life, sitting at this desk or standing in court. It was like the play that Sam did in high school. He couldn't imagine Sam actually being that kid, however good he was at pretending to be him.

Underneath, he had to still be Sam or there wouldn't be a hidden stash of hunting supplies and a journal he couldn't find.

"Hey, Dennis. You didn't notice anything unusual about Sam before he died, did you?" Dean grinned, half charming, half I-just-want-to-help.

Ducking his head, Dennis licked his lips and said, "No. I mean, I don't think so. Other than the car thing. No."

"What car thing?" Dean leaned forward and Dennis shifted back, like a puppy wary of a rolled up newspaper.

Dennis glanced up, and frowned a little. "You know. Didn't he tell Jessica?"

"No," Dean tried to smile again, but he felt it come out more crooked than before.

"We went out to lunch a few weeks ago. And he kept looking in the rearview mirror. It was really weird, you know?" Dennis paused until Dean nodded. "And then he starts driving crazy, u-turns in no-u-turn lanes and ... you know. Random right hand turns. I got kind of freaked out, I guess."

The way Dennis was blushing, Dean imagined that he had been clinging to the door, ready to throw himself out.

"When we got to the restaurant, he said that the car'd been following him around for a few days. It was all so weird, because Sam wasn't working any of the violent crimes, or you know, ones that would make people go after him. So, I made him go down to the station and report it. They said that they couldn't do anything, you know, until we figured out who it was. But they said they'd give a copy of the report to building security."

If the demon was _in_ Sam, then why would it need to follow him around? Dean choked down the question and asked the next one. "Did it happen again?"

"No. I mean, I didn't really ask because Sam was so weird about it. He was always checking the parking lot ... and he'd carry around this _knife_. I don't think anyone knew about it. But it was pretty scary."

Dennis was tugging at the string in his tie and Dean would bet that he went through ties pretty quickly. Nervous tics were the type of thing that people didn't know how to break.

"Thanks, Dennis. You've been a real help." Dean let his hand linger a second on Dennis's. It was habit and he wondered if he just came off as creepy because Dennis looked at him weird.

"Are you ok?" Dennis asked, his voice nervous. "You seem mad."

"I'm fine," Dean smiled, reflexively. "Thanks."

"Sure," Dennis nodded and Dean hefted the box of Sam's personal belongings.

The security office in the building was on the ground floor and when he knocked, someone behind it yelled for him to come in. The room was cramped and the woman behind the desk didn't look any happier than he was to be there.

"Hey," he nodded, flashing his police badge, he hoped that it was the right one for the city. "Evans asked me to come by since I was in the building. You know Sam Winchester? The kid was killed up in the Tenderloin, and we think he might have filed some sort of report here."

The woman was tall and thin, but her shoulders hunched forward and her face drooped into a scowl. She frowned when she heard Sam's name. "Evans already came by. Why didn't he ask then?"

Her long, bony fingers were typing, and her eyes stayed fixed on the screen, not on him.

"I don't know. He just asked me to get a printout for him." Dean glanced around the office, like he was bored, like he was just a little pissy at being someone's lacky.

"You working plainclothes?" She pulled two sheets out of the printer and slammed her hand down on the stapler.

"Yeah," Dean nodded. "Can't really talk about the case, but it's really important to the crime in Little Saigon."

She nodded, already bored by his posturing. It was a trick he'd learned in Chicago. Women who worked with cops were either in love with the macho or so sick of it that they'd pay to get you out of their offices. It helped make him unmemorable, forgettable. He was just another jock cop who wanted to pump up his own ego.

Dean waited until he was out in the car to check on the printout.

It was vague - pretty average for a civilian's report. Black car, maybe a Honda, license started with "W." Sam wasn't a civilian, though. Never had been. If he was this vague, it was because he wanted to be. He didn't want them finding the real car because he didn't think law enforcement could handle it.

Whoever was following Sam around might have been someone who knew about the possession. Or, more likely, it was one of the demon's allies. Someone trying to track down the demon inside Sam. If it hadn't been something dangerous, Sam never would have tried to lose the guy with someone else there.

Sam was funny like that when it came to civilians. Dean never worried about the fact that he didn't care about them anymore, just one more pointless thing to worry about when his gun went off.

It _might_ have been another hunter, though, or at least a demon another hunter had dealt with. If Jess hadn't mentioned it, it probably meant that whatever it was hadn't ever tried to come into the apartment, or at least she hadn't known about it.

He imagined what it must have been like for Sam, being hunted inside his own head and tracked by someone else. Dean would have gone crazy, he knew. He'd have snapped and probably lost himself to the demon. Shaking his head, he got out of the car, needing to walk, needing to clear his head.

The parking structure was the perfect place for people to hide out. The realization came after he passed the car he'd seen across the street from Nguyen's. It was a dark car, a black Nissan, but Sam would have tried to tell the truth as much as he could and Dennis probably wouldn't know a Honda from a Lamborghini, much less a Nissan.

Dean kept walking, taking the cement stairs up instead of down. He headed towards the roof and when he knew the guy was on the stairs behind him, he spun, kicking at the guy as he came up behind him. Skidding down the rail, Dean landed near where the guy had fallen, his gun trained on him.

The guy was only slightly taller than Dean, wearing a denim overshirt and a blank expression. He was familiar - the outfit, the shaved hair and it hit Dean at once.

"The Full Moon?" Dean asked, gun still aimed at the guy's head. Not too close, he didn't want to give the guy any chances. "Gordon."

"Yeah," Gordon nodded. "You're Dean Winchester. I know your dad."

"Why're you following me?" His toe was at the edge of a stair and he shifted his weight backwards half a step, giving most of it to his back leg. Someone nearby shut their car door, auto locked it. They took the stairs, one level below Dean.

He inhaled sharply and waited for Gordon to talk.

"I'm hunting some 'big game' in town and you seemed to be on the same track as me."

"What track?" His hip was cramping and he knew that soon he'd have to move, and there were real bullets in his gun: he'd either have to shoot Gordon or leave him.

"Why don't you put the gun down and we can go have a beer," Gordon said. "I'm not going to get all territorial, 'it was my hunt first.' This is big enough that I could use the help."

At the edge of Dean's lip was a small cut where the skin had cracked from the cold. He licked it automatically, felt the sting and said, "The Full Moon?"

He still had his gun trained on Gordon, and he wanted to shoot him, if only to feel blood on his hands. It didn't matter whose.

"Sure. I'll buy you a beer," Gordon's voice was coaxing, grating on Dean because of its insincerity.

"Shut up," Dean said, gun steady.

"Look, I just wanted to see if you were up to anything, don't take it personally." Gordon's voice dropped, and now Dean could see him planning an escape. It was the last that convinced him. If Gordon had been after him, Dean would have had a fight on his hands; he wouldn't have had to plan an escape after he was captured.

Smoothly, Dean lowered the gun and hid it back in his jeans. It would be good to know what Gordon knew and the first step to that was letting the guy buy him a drink.

"Sorry about that," Dean grinned and offered Gordon a hand, keeping his eyes open to make sure Gordon didn't come up with a knife.

Gordon's grip was firm and his hand had the calluses of work, rough on the palm like Dean's. "No problem, it was understandable."

For a moment they stared each other in the eye, sizing up. Then Gordon nodded, his lips softening and he said, "Meet you there?"

"Yeah," Dean agreed, gesturing Gordon down the stairs first. Gordon walked like a hunter, strong and assured, but also quiet: he knew how to sneak up on prey. Watching his gait made Dean realize how lucky he was that he'd been trained to be hunted. He knew what it felt like to be watched better than most of the things he killed.

Getting into the Impala, Dean waited for Gordon to drive off first. After a minute, he realized that Gordon was waiting for the same thing. The standoff ended when Dean saw Gordon's car drive past in his rearview. It was almost worrying that Gordon let Dean have his back. It had to be because he knew something Dean didn't - he had some advantage that Dean didn't know about.

Following Gordon at a distance, Dean kept that in mind.

The Full Moon was almost empty when they got there, a big guy behind the register. He glanced at them when they came in.

"Two beers," Gordon ordered. "Whatever's on tap."

The way that his jacket fell, Dean could tell he was carrying something, but the shape was off for a standard handgun and it wasn't small enough for a switchblade.

Dean took the mug handed to him and followed Gordon back into a corner. It was the same table that Dean had first spotted Gordon at and it made them both fade, disappear into the background. If he'd come alone, Dean would have chosen the same table.

"What're you hunting?" Dean asked.

Gordon shrugged, "There's a major player out there who likes to use humans."

"Humans?" Dean took a sip of his beer, careful even though he'd watched it since it came out of the tap, hadn't let Gordon touch it.

"I thought that's what you were going after," Gordon said. He didn't drink his beer, but used the mug to keep both hands on the table, a sign that he expected Dean to do the same. It was a prop, the way that everything was, the way that whatever he had stashed was a prop. If he wanted to kill Dean, he would have tried already, and probably made it because Dean was almost too distracted to fight it off.

Dean shook his head. "How's it using them?"

Gordon nudged at the mug with his fingers, and the liquid sloshed a little over the edge, wetting his fingers. He used the napkins on the table, instead of reaching down to wipe them on his jeans and Dean appreciated it.

"That's the fucked up part," Gordon leaned forward and grinned, his teeth in shadow. "It's not. These people are helping it out on their own."

Leaning back, Dean exhaled sharply. Sam wouldn't help a demon if the demon offered him Cameron Diaz on a silver platter. He wasn't sure if it was relief or not. It meant he was still looking for whatever killed Sam _and_ there was some crazy person-using demon out there.

"What does it want?" Dean asked, noting how Gordon relaxed with him - or at least appeared to.

Shrugging, Gordon finally took a drink of beer, his face closed. "Hell on earth, a kingdom of its own, whatever these things always want."

With a sharp rap on the table, Dean said, "You seen much action around here?"

It wasn't quite a subject change, but Dean could tell a blood grudge when he saw one. Dean had grown up around a grudge that made Mohammad Ali look like a playground bully.

"Some," Gordon shrugged. "I keep moving a lot. Just finished up a nest of vamps out in Nebraska."

"Vamps?" Dean laughed a little. "You're kidding me. I thought they were all wiped out."

Dad had told them stories, sometimes, about hunters that had come before them. It was Saint George and the Dragon for the Winchesters. He knew most of the story by heart, at this point, how they'd dragged the bloodsuckers out into daylight and sent them all back to hell.

"No, it's the last few that you've gotta watch out for," Gordon said. He pulled up his sleeve and showed off a new scar, some scab still clinging to the edges. "Got this from one of them. They were trying to hide by drinking cows. Wouldn't believe how good they were at blending in."

"Yeah?" Dean asked. The scar was nice, but he had a better one, and pulled down at the collar of his shirt. He showed off the near decapitation he'd had, a close call that was saved by some salt in his pocket and a careless ghost. Dead people were so stupid.

Gordon whistled and said, "Skinwalker?"

"Ghost," Dean said, smirking. "The thing lived in an old slaughterhouse."

"Here," Gordon lifted the edge of his undershirt and stretched so that Dean could see the long, shiny line of a scar along his ribs.

It was impressive that he'd survived a wound that looked like it had been deep enough that the bones must have been visible. With an eyebrow, Dean waited for the story.

Gordon answered the silent question. "This possessed biker. Had to take him down with my hands because he wouldn't stop at bullets."

At that, Dean leaned forward, forearms on the table, "You _killed_ someone possessed?"

The sloshy feeling in his stomach was back and Dean tried to remember when he'd last had a real meal made of more than coffee or alcohol.

He wanted beer to wet the back of his throat and wash away the feeling he got, because if Gordon would've killed someone possessed to stop them, he wouldn't be the only one. Someone out there had killed Sam, in a way gruesome enough to make sure his brother stayed dead.

Demons weren't the only ones who didn't like mouthy hosts.

"I did what I had to do to stop the demon. The guy wasn't an innocent, he'd done those murders." Gordon's eyes caught Dean's seriously.

"But he was possessed, he didn't have control," Dean protested. "Victims have a right to be free, make their own decisions about whether they're guilty or not. I've seen a couple of exorcisms where the guys didn't even know they were possessed."

"It's still real blood on their hands," Gordon said. He frowned, his mouth tugging at a scar on his cheek. "Your daddy should have taught you that."

Abruptly, Dean leaned back, hands sliding on the table top. His voice was casual. "That's not what he taught me."

"Let me tell you something, Dean. Even when they 'don't have control,' it's still up to us to stop them." Gordon took a drink of his beer, set it down carefully. "When I was a kid, I had a sister. One night a vampire breaks into her room and drinks from her. I could hear them behind the door, knew that she was in pain and that she didn't want to go, but by the time I got through the door, he'd already taken her. It took me years to find him, and when I did, she was with him. He'd turned her. So, I cut off his head and then shoved a stake through her chest."

The pause was thick between them. For a second, Dean tried to imagine shoving a stake through Sam's chest, or putting a bullet in his brain. The image failed him and he shook his head. He'd sooner die than do that. But his brother was dead, now, and all he could do was think about catching the thing that had killed Sam and torturing it until it knew how he felt.

Under his cut fingertips, the grain of the table was smooth, worn through years of use. It was familiar enough to ground him in where he was. He hadn't caught the thing yet.

"That's intense," Dean said.

"That's _life_ ," Gordon said. The 'asshole' was silent. He stood, slowly and leaned down to write something on a napkin. "This is my number, if you still want a hunting partner after you find whatever you're looking for."

Dean picked it up and stared at it for a second. "Why'd you think we were after the same thing?"

For a second, Gordon looked at him with something that might have been pity, if Gordon hadn't been a hunter. "You were sniffing around at the right time. I thought you'd gotten the same tip from the Roadhouse I did."

"You talk to Ellen?" Dean asked, crumpling the napkin in his hand.

"I have contacts," Gordon nodded. "Call me if you want to hunt together."

Silently, Dean watched him leave.

The bar wouldn't fill for a while yet, he imagined, so he stayed, drank beer and ate peanuts. When Anna came on shift, he watched her smile at the other bartender, tie an apron around her waist and pull her hair back with a clip.

It took her a while to spot him and she raised an eyebrow, a slight frown on her face. He imagined she was wondering what he was doing sitting in Gordon's corner.

He stood, using a palm flat to the table to lever himself up and walked over to the counter, leaving his empty glass on the table.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," she echoed. "A girl might get the idea that you like to drink."

"It's actually the company," Dean let his mouth fall into a familiar smile; it was as automatic as a muscle spasm. "Just can't stay away from you."

Looking skeptical, she filled another mug of beer, putting it onto a napkin in front of him. His grin was probably passing, because she didn't flinch away when he leaned towards her.

"Why don't you like Gordon?" he asked.

"Who said I don't like him?". She reached down and tugged at the laces of her apron, tightening the knot.

Dean took a long drink of beer, staring her down. Anna blinked first, and twisted her mouth.

"Gordon's dangerous. He's not really the type that I'd want at my back." Her voice was quiet. "A while ago, he scared me, followed me home and wouldn't leave."

Dean took a drink of beer. "Why was he following you?"

"There was something on my trail," she said, and she stared down at her hands, face closed. She looked ashamed by it. "And he found it and killed it."

"So he saved you," Dean summarized.

"I guess, but he was ..." She shrugged. "He's just off."

"Yeah," Dean said. He took another drink of beer.

How many girls would say that about him? Get that look on their face and even though he'd saved them from a ghost or a werewolf, they'd look at him and think that he'd taken away their safe little world where the worst thing they had to worry about was men in the dark with knives.

He dragged their nightmares out into the open and added a few into the mix. For a moment, he felt bad for Gordon, being judged so harshly.

"I'm going to head out," he said.

"You sure you should be driving?" she asked. Her hand was partially extended, an aborted movement to help him with his balance.

Steadying himself against the bar, he shook his head to try to clear it.

"Let me get you some toast and coffee," she said.

Before he could refuse, she'd already gone into the back and so he sat back down at the bar, watching people begin to come in. There wasn't anyone he recognized, but he could see Caleb or Bobby fitting into the crowd, with their worn shirts and work boots.

He sat at the bar, his back to the most dangerous men in the world, men who didn't fear the dark. The people who could stare down the demon under the bed and grin afterwards.

Anna came back with her hands full and he ate the dry toast, felt it settle uneasily, expanding his stomach. He drank coffee - strong and hot - and watched her move behind the bar, the way she turned and reached for bottles, the way that she leaned over to serve a beer.

Out of the corner of her eyes, she kept sneaking glances at him and he grinned in response.

When he looked down, his hand was flat on the bar and he imagined someone cruel enough to pull out Sam's entrails. If the demon was trying to use Sam and Sam said _no_ ...

If Sam said, "no," ten to one, the demon would rather kill him then let him live.

For a second, Dean thought about Gordon and wondered if he'd killed Sam, even though Sam had been fighting off possession. The thought bothered him until he realized that if Gordon had, he would have left town as soon as Dean showed up. The Winchester name was worth something in fear.

People were afraid of Dad, the way that they told stories around him betrayed them. No one wanted to partner with John since the Harvelle incident.

Gordon was too smart to stay in town where a Winchester could get his scent.

By his second cup of coffee, he felt sober enough to stand. Anna watched him go, her eyes a little bit sad. She looked exactly like Ellen when she stared at him like that.

When he got to the apartment building, he sat down on the stairs, back against the wall. He closed his eyes until the world stopped spinning and then he went inside and put Sam's things down on the counter. He didn't hear movement and closed his eyes again, listening to the house.

He meant to call for Jess, but when he opened his mouth, all he could say was, "Sammy."

The countertop was cracked tile and he pressed his cheek to the cool surface. Around him, the air was quiet and he pulled fists to keep from breaking things.

When he opened his eyes, he was staring at an envelope that had fallen out of the box. It was blank on the front, but on the back, he recognized Sam's casual scrawl.

 _FBS100555_

Dean tore open the envelope and a key and a sheet of paper fell out, _37.781514, -122.417397_ in his father's handwriting. He recognized it painfully, recognized the twist of the eight in on itself, bleeding into the one. It was a GPS location. Sam had obviously resealed them together after he got them.

It felt like a gut punch that the two of them had been communicating while he'd been walking around missing his family. Of all the things he expected, Dad bending, even a little bit, wasn't one of them.

Angrily, he looked at the note and the code.

The key was heavy in his hand, and he had to find out what it was for, what his dad and his brother had been hiding. If it had gotten Sam killed.

They had to have been hiding something from whatever was hunting Sam because the only other option was that they were hiding something from _him_ and Dean liked to pretend he knew them both better than that.

Spreading Sam's map of San Francisco on the counter, Dean traced his fingers down and paused midway across the map, noticing something he'd missed before. A tiny dot of silver pencil in the middle of Golden Gate Avenue.

He did a rough check of the latitude and longitude, but it looked right.

Pocketing the envelope and key, stuffing the note into his front pocket, Dean headed for the couch. Eight a.m. was a long way off, and he couldn't move any more tonight.

Anna haunted his dreams, her smile and her eyes, the way her eyes saw through him even when she wasn't staring. Sam and John sat down and had coffee and laughed, their voices the same in the coffee-colored night. Mrs. Tyler laughed at him from her tomb, her mockery clear. She led Sam by the hand towards golden California. Dean tried clawing his way out of a casket, making a low mourning sound and John kicked sand in his eyes like a child. His headstone was blank and something was watching him from the darkness.

He woke suddenly with someone over him, long hair tickling his face. Before he could think about it, he had kicked at her ankles, flipped her over, and gotten his arm against her throat.

Beneath him, Jess struggled desperately, her nails biting into his arm.

It took him less than a second to realize, and then he let her up, rolling off her. "Sorry," he said. "I'm sorry."

He was shirtless and the carpet had scraped his elbows. She was still silent, her shoulders shaking hard, and he said, " _Jess_."

Inhaling, she reached up for him, locked her hands around his neck and pulled herself up against him, tank top a thin layer between their chests.

Her skin warmed new bruises and he knew that Sam had been busy while he was asleep. She was crying against his neck, her eyelashes wet, her mouth biting into his shoulder to muffle her sobs. His hand crept around her waist, fingers playing at the warm skin there before pushing up under her shirt.

Sliding against her hot skin, he found small imperfections, a scar, a birthmark. With his fingertips, he traced her shoulder blade, moving with it when she made a last soft, hitching breath.

"Please." Her voice cracked. Both of her hands dug into his hair and pulled his lips against hers.

He felt one of his nails tug at her shoulder and loosened his grip before he broke skin. She bit down on his lip and he tasted copper, pressed himself down on her chest until she released him to gasp for air. Her breath was hot and short in his ear she panted and he let himself ease up a little, her nipples pressed against him.

She tilted her head back when he pulled at her shirt, tugged it out of his hands and up over her head. On her skin, his palms were clammy, and he pulled himself off, set them down on the carpet, reveling in the rough contrast to her skin.

He kissed his way across her chest, desperate for her hands and the soft sound she made when she arched her back.

"Dean," she said. "More."

He let her push him back, shimmy out of her underwear. She straddled him and rode out his automatic thrust, her lips open. He couldn't help cup her breast with his hand, and she bowed her head a little, blonde hair falling down towards him.

Her voice was commanding, certain when she said, "Come on."

It was an echo of his childhood, that tone, and he ran a finger up between her breasts, but she was already leaning down, and pulled his fingers to her lips, sucking each of them down. Her eyes watched him, and he couldn't look her in the eye, just watched her cheeks hollow out with each suck.

When he looked back, she'd thrown back her head, blonde hair against her skin, a golden contrast.

Her eyes were closed and she sighed, softly, "Sam."

Dean's hips jerked and she tightened her legs, refusing to be unseated. She reached down and he helped her tug down his pants, her nails scratching against the scars along his stomach, where he'd nearly been gutted by a werewolf.

Her skin smelled familiar, and he twisted his head away when he realized she smelled like Sam. She must have had to wrap herself in his blankets to smell so exactly like his brother, that faint scent of smoke he imagined had come from the possession.

Her whole body was tight, muscles firm when he ran a hand up her arm and down her stomach. She didn't bother with a condom, just wrapped her hand around him and tugged once, then positioned him so that she could slide down. Dean grunted, desperate and satisfied.

It was fast, her movements getting the perfect angle, and when she gasped, her body stilling, he pulled her back down onto him and thrust up and in. Spitting her hair out of his mouth, he grabbed her hips tighter and came.

*****

He woke up on Sam's side of the bed; on the bedside table there was a book on Sandra Day O'Connor with a bookmark stuck in the middle. The pillowcase still smelled like Sam, sweaty and real. He paused a moment with his face pressed into it, fists clutching at the hem.

Jess was at the counter when he got up, a pot of oatmeal boiling over behind her. She turned, absently, and stirred it.

Yawning, Dean scrubbed at his face, and said, "Hey."

His voice was hoarse, broken from alcohol. He couldn't ever remember having been this careless before, wasting his time drinking or being drunk and he wanted to snap out of it, but he felt like his own guts were being pulled out, inch by inch.

It was a slow death, and he could only hope that Sam's hadn't been this agonizing.

Last night should have been awkward except that Dean felt like it had been building since he'd first seen her. She was Sam's wife and he was Sam's brother and he still wanted her, maybe because of that or maybe despite it.

He took the bowl of hot cereal that she handed him and watched her go through the box that he'd left on the counter.

"Did they know anything?" she asked. Her eyes were on a tie that Dean had found under a book; she fingered the silk reverently.

"His office mate thought that someone was following him." Dean poked at the cereal, ate it even when it burned going down. He'd need to find coffee somewhere, since Jess didn't seem to drink it.

"Following him?" Her voice rose. "And the cops didn't do anything?"

"I don't know," Dean finished off the bowl and put it in the sink.

Behind him, she asked, "Did the whores know anything?"

"He wasn't visiting the massage parlor," Dean said. He washed the bowl with a damp cloth, uncertain what else he could do. "There was a market next to it, and he was visiting a woman who lived there."

"Why?" She put a hand on his bare shoulder, her fingers already familiar. He shivered when she scratched lightly, goosebumps rising on his skin.

"He was sick. He had some sort of ... virus he was trying to fight off." The fabric gave a little when he wrung it out into the sink.

She pulled her hand back and his shoulder felt cold without it resting there. "He didn't give me an STD, did he?"

"No." He shook his head and turned to face her where she stood with her arms crossed under her breasts. He could see her nipples, dark under her tank top.

"Are you going to stay with me today?" The need in her voice made him want to wrap his arms around her.

Instead he turned to the fridge, opening it and staring into it blankly. Eventually, he managed another short "No."

She didn't say anything and he turned to see her staring a picture of her and Sam.

"I'm trying," he said. "To find his killer."

"I know."

Shuddering, she shrugged and began eating her own bowl of oatmeal. In her silence, he heard the accusation he knew was true. Trying wasn't good enough. Not when it was Sam.

He showered and left before he had time to think better of it.

Taking his time, he drove down Golden Gate Avenue until he came to a post office. The three letters and six digits suddenly made more sense: Dad had taught them to take out a PO box when they needed somewhere to send things to.

Sitting outside in his car, he pulled out a GPS tracker and double checked to be sure, but the GPS address was definitely a post office. Pulling on his jacket, he walked inside casually. It was early enough that no one questioned it when he went into the rows of PO boxes.

The box labeled 100555 was empty except for a package slip dated a day before Sam's death. Whatever Dad had wanted to send Sam hadn't gotten to him in time. Sam had never even had a chance to check the box.

Dean took it up to the front, smiled nicely and pulled out a credit card with Sam's name on it.

"Sorry," he said. "Forgot my ID at home. Is this OK?"

The petite Asian woman shrugged and handed over the package without making him sign for it. Behind him, some guy was already pushing him out of the way, explaining that his package needed to be sent _now_ to New York and it needed to get there _tomorrow_.

Casually, Dean tucked the box under his arm and went back to the car.

As soon as he was inside the Impala, he ripped through the cardboard with a pocket knife, pulling out a slender wooden box quickly.

When he opened it, he wasn't sure at first what he was looking at. Dad hadn't put any note into the box, just golden bullets and a gun. Staring blankly, he knew what it was. The Colt.

 _The Colt_. The holy grail for Hunters, the gun that could kill _anything_.

He put it back quickly, pushed it under the driver's seat.

Numbly, he pulled out his cell phone, dialed automatically.

"Dad. I found the Colt. I'm going to throw it into the bay unless you call me. _What was Sam hunting_?" It was out before he could take it back, a desperate question. He inhaled and paused, waiting on the phone, like his father's cell would answer him.

Eventually, he hung up, merging into traffic and not stopping until he was in a parking garage, feet taking him into a building, flashing a badge and a smile.

In the morgue, he said, "Evans wanted me to take a look at something."

The morgue attendant looked at him critically, but she was young enough that when he leaned over and talked about FBI/police relations and how hard it was to be a black sheep on both sides of the fence, she let him in.

"Samuel Winchester?" she asked, leading him down metal rows. Even when they weren't that cold, morgues always felt chilly to Dean. He couldn't help but imagine them as meat lockers for the less fortunate.

It was like the post office again, rows of boxes filled with secrets.

"Yeah. Crazy case," Dean shook his head, like he was shaking the images out, like his brain was an Etch-a-Sketch.

The attendant grinned and said, "I know. I did the prelim."

At the end of a row, she opened a metal door and rolled out the corpse on a metal bed. She pulled back the sheet like it was a normal body, like Sam was any old body. Like Sam was just another vic from just another crime scene.

Dean looked at the dead body of his brother.

His eyes were dry, impossibly calm, and under his skin, he burned.

"Shit. I need to finish up a report," the attendant said, checking her watch. "Can you close him up?"

"Sure," Dean nodded calmly, pulling on the gloves he'd grabbed from her desk.

She walked away from him, leaving him staring at the torso of his dead brother, a gaping hole where Sam's chest used to be. Her heels made soft sounds the farther they got away from him and his dead brother.

Around them the air was cold and Dean said, "Why didn't you call _me_ , Sam? Was that you? All those hang-ups?"

Sam's body was pale, almost blue, the skin white. He looked like he was wearing a bad Halloween costume and Dean reached over with his hand to cup Sam's cheek. Slowly, like he didn't want to scare Sam, he moved forward and pressed his lips against Sam's forehead, closing his eyes.

The corpse didn't smell like Sam; it smelled like chemicals and rubbing alcohol, like latex and the chill of a freezer. When Dean closed his eyes and rested his cheek on Sam's forehead, he could pretend that Sam had just come home from a snowball fight.

His eyes caught on the black of ink on Sam's chest and he recognized the shape from the folded piece of paper in Sam's office. Licking his thumb, he rubbed hard at the color, and some came off onto his thumb.

Gritting his teeth, he squeezed his eyes shut, cheek against Sam's shoulder, mouth against his throat.

When he heard them coming, familiar voices and rushing steps, he was thinking clearly enough to duck into a janitor's closet and watch through the vents as Fulmar and Evans found the body.

"He was just here," the attendant said.

"Must have heard us." Evans was already heading down the hall in one direction and pointed Fulmar in the other. It was hard to miss the pissed-off look that Fulmar gave Evans, the way he mimicked him to his back.

Then they were gone, and Dean watched the attendant push Sam back into darkness, close the door on him. Dean waited a while, watching the metal square that guarded Sam, and then he found a vent that he could crawl through.

******

The apartment echoed empty when he got back and he went from room to room looking for Jess or Sam, finding neither. The place was dark with dusk, and he switched on a light in case she came home.

"C'mon, Sam, stop being a bitch."

It came out snotty and he reached for a napkin to wipe his nose. The sleek box that the Colt lived in fit awkwardly in his hands. He wanted to hide it where Jess couldn't find it.

She still didn't go in Sam's office; Dean knew from the way she sometimes stared into it, wanting. Opening the door, he stepped in, pushing aside papers on Sam's desk to make room for the Colt. Hide it in plain sight. Under his left boot, he heard something crack and give, like an eggshell.

He turned on the desk lamp and looked down. Dark glass, shards of it, almost all ground into the carpet. When he bent down, picking up the biggest piece, he knew what it was, familiar with the shade of purple.

"What'd you need a black light for, Sam?"

Crouching down, he dug through the bottom drawer and found a fragile cardboard case covering another black light. The outside of the case said that it was for a 75 watt white bulb and Dean smiled a little.

Carefully, he unscrewed the bulb from the desk lamp and slid out the black light, putting the white bulb into the cardboard. When he turned it on, he saw nothing, other than the lint on his shirt.

"Useless without whatever you were writing in, Sam."

He opened up the Colt case, but there were no hidden codes painted inside the lid. Randomly holding papers on the desk under the light, he found nothing, giving up midway through a stack of paid bills.

Dean sat down, looked at the room now lit differently, things glowing green and white and he shrugged. Things couldn't ever be simple.

After a second, he pulled Sam's notebook out of his pocket, tossing aside the envelope that the PO box key had come in. He opened to the first blank page and grinned when he saw the invisible lettering light up. Sam's handwriting was the same: stiff, narrow, familiar.

The pages started the same as before. An exorcism here, a burning there. Then nothing for two whole years; in the next entry the date jumped, the handwriting changed. It became messy, careless, more like Dad's.

 _I feel it in my mind, in the background. Nguyen's ritual is holding up, but I don't know for how much longer. Tyler's voice is still there, and it makes me sick to hear her._

 _I have to find a more permanent solution, maybe play with the ingredients. She says she has a better one that she needs to verify first._

 _The guy who's been following me to work is outside my apartment. I can see him there, in his car._

 _African-American male. Wears plaid overshirts and jeans. Goatee. Well-groomed. A hunter._

 _He's hunting me. He has to know about the demon._

Keys jangled in the lock and Dean snapped off the blacklight, burning his fingers trying to switch out the bulbs. Giving up, he tilted the light downwards; hopefully she wouldn't notice. He met Jess in the living room with a kiss.

His mind was blank.

Just because Gordon was watching Sam, didn't mean that he'd killed him. But it meant enough. It meant enough that Gordon had lied about it.

"I have to go out," he said.

She twisted her fingers in his shirt. "No."

He tugged out of her hands, the notebook biting his palm. He barely remembered the keys to the Impala when he left.

For a while he sat in the car, until he recognized the car halfway down the block on the other side of the street. It was Gordon. Glancing into his rearview, he watched Gordon watch him.

When Gordon started his car, Dean twisted the keys in the Impala, listening to her warm in the chilly air. Gordon pulled out into traffic and with a quick glance over his shoulder, Dean pulled the Impala out and followed. It was clear from his driving that Gordon knew San Francisco, or at least had more than a passing knowledge of the city and its angled streets, the one-way alleys that he could get stuck in.

It was easy to follow Gordon. He drove with the slow patience of someone waiting for Dean to keep up.

They ended up at a warehouse, concrete and dirty windows high on the wall. Gordon parked on the street, and Dean pulled up behind him, hand tightening on his gun when Gordon came up beside his window.

Casually, he rolled down the window, eyes tracking Gordon's hands where they stayed flat on the window of the Impala.

"Glad you came," Gordon said. His teeth were white and his smile was like a dog growling.

Dean mimicked the gesture, fighting the urge to slam the Impala's door into Gordon's knees, take him out right there, in the daylight without any solid evidence. It could have been anyone outside Sam's building - any hunter, any of the guys he helped convict.

"Yeah?" Dean kept his voice level. Wind danced into the Impala, chill cutting through his body heat. He put on his poker face, always the best, no matter what bar he's in.

"Goblins," Gordon said. "Don't like to deal with them on my own."

As he spoke, something flashed in his eyes and it wasn't a friendly _glad you're here_ it was darker, watchful. It wasn't help Gordon was asking for, it was proof of capability. Swaggering into a bar with weaponry would only get you so far, and Dean knew that better than most. He had to prove his salt before he would be able to get near Gordon.

"Lead the way," Dean said, reaching under the seat for a silver knife.

Goblins were tricky creatures, had long, slender limbs that met at odd angles, with thick knots of joints. Razor-sharp teeth and tongues that snuck out to flick at the air like snakes. Dean wasn't a huge fan of them, even less of a fan of the "only killed by silver knives" PS to their bio.

Gordon handed him a second knife from his stash, sliding the weapons back into his car with a metallic scrape. He snapped the catch back on and raised an eyebrow. "You ready?"

Nodding, Dean watched him go into the building first. It was the second time that Gordon had shown Dean his back and it wasn't any better the second time, because Dean knew that Gordon was dangerous enough to take him and he wouldn't give Dean that inch without confidence.

Dean knew he was missing a puzzle piece and it bugged him that he couldn't figure out why Gordon wasn't afraid. Unless Gordon honestly hadn't killed Sam ... but Dean wasn't a big believer in appearances.

Hell, in some states, he was considered a serial killer.

Inside, it was dark and he obeyed Gordon's hand motions to circle around the side. There was movement between the boxes, but he waited, ignoring the flickers in his peripheral vision. His pant leg caught on a twisted nail on the side of a box and he tugged at it, jerking the box forward a couple of inches.

The warehouse was cooler than outside, but there wasn't any wind, so when he felt a breeze, he dropped to the ground, knives pointing upwards, and caught a goblin square in the chest as it bore down on him. He shoved it off with both hands, ignoring the blood and gore. Hacking at his jeans with a knife, he finally got free with a solid ripping sound.

Then he turned to face the one that leapt over him, limbs almost distending with the movement. He kicked out, but his boots were heavy and useless. It came closer, scrabbling at him with bony fingers and a wicked grin.

He wrapped a hand around the goblin's wrist and tugged it forward onto a knife. Its skin gave way easily, like a paper kite to the blade. Gordon kept his knives sharp.

He finished off the demon with one slice into its chest cavity, bones breaking brittle against the blade.

A slender arm wrapped around Dean's neck and he fell back, struggling to get a breath when he felt the goblin give, its arm going slack.

When he struggled up, Dean saw a deep slice in the goblin's throat. Gordon was soaked in blood, his arms painted in red. In the darkness, he looked like something that Dean would fight.

"Was that," Dean coughed out the roughness in his voice. "Was that it?"

"Seven," Gordon agreed.

Counting, Dean got two for him, one more for the one trying to play keep-away with his head. Two were motionless across the room, red leaking slowly out of their chests. They were staked into the ground with bits of wooden boxes, joints twisted out of place at their shoulders. Their long limbs still twitched, nerves firing.

One began making a soft keening sound, like a child.

"They're still alive," Dean said.

Gordon stalked over to them, his body tense. For a second, he stood over the one that wasn't making noise and then he stepped down on its throat, leaning into his stance until Dean heard the small breaking sound of a throat collapsing.

"They're animals, but if there are any more in the area, they'll come for them."

His voice echoed strangely, loudly in the quiet. Dean watched his back and thought about sliding a knife home in between his ribs or up into his kidneys.

He felt nauseated and came up beside Gordon. Quickly, he knelt to push his knife into the thing's ribs, killing it efficiently. When he glanced up, Gordon had a knife at his throat.

In the dim lighting, they stared at each other, until Gordon pulled back the knife, let Dean kill the crying one. Its eyes were wide and glassy, breath uneven and when he slid the knife across its throat, it sighed, bubbles forming in the blood.

By the time it was finally done, the blood on Dean's arms was beginning to itch and Gordon had settled on top of a crate.

"You're good," Gordon said.

Dean watched him, his even breaths, the way that Gordon didn't seem to care that what he had been about to do was torture.

"I'm going to go wash this off," he said.

He walked out, showing his back to Gordon and knowing that if he ever tried to take him, it would be a fight to remember. The air made goosebumps rise on his arms, made him shiver with the desire to be clean.

Stripping out of his shirt next to his car, he wiped off the blood that was still wet, then shrugged on a new shirt, one stained with engine grease, a long streak across his chest where he'd wiped some after replacing the oil filter.

The car was cold and he looked behind him in the rearview as he left, but Gordon hadn't followed. He merged into traffic and became just another crazy on the road.

*****

He couldn't go back to Jess like he was. He couldn't touch her skin with his bloody hands and tell her that it was someone else's blood, not the blood of Sam's killer, that he'd failed again.

He knew that the second he went home, he would want to kiss her skin, run his hands up her sides, cup her breasts. Even if Sam was there, he would want it and that made him feel filthy inside.

The bridge going to the East Bay didn't have a toll and he was grateful; he knew that he looked like a serial killer, blood brown under his nails. Pushing down the sun visor, he avoided looking at any of the cars next to him.

By the time he got to The Full Moon, his ears had stopped ringing and he knew what he wanted. Checking his neck in the rearview mirror, he sighed a little, fingering the bruises. It looked as bad as it felt and he swallowed painfully, tasting copper from his lip.

Anna was behind the counter, laughing with one of the customers when he came in. She glanced over and frowned.

"Dean?"

"You have a bathroom?" he asked.

She jerked her thumb to the door leading into the back. He moved back, passing the dishwasher, a short kid with a blue bandanna wrapped around his head. The kid frowned when he saw Dean.

"Man, you got blood on your jacket."

Even the black leather couldn't disguise the thick caking of blood. It looked a lot like human blood, red when it was wet, although it settled more thickly, Dean noticed.

"Bathroom?" he asked, shortly. The kid pointed to a door near the fire exit.

It was a small bathroom, mirror scraped with graffiti. Someone had torn off half of the 'Employees must wash hands before returning to work' sign. His reflection didn't look much better cut up by the deep gouges in the mirror.

Shrugging out of his jacket, he hung it on the back of the door and wet a paper towel to wash off what he could. The bathroom light was pale yellow and he looked sickly in the mirror, bruises dark on his skin.

When the paper tore, ripped from how violently he was using it against his arms, he tossed it on top of the overflowing trash and picked up another. The used towel rolled off and fell wetly to the floor.

Cleaning more blood off his arms, he couldn't stop staring at his eyes.

Why would Sam call and then just hang up? Why didn't he talk?

"I would have come, Sam," he said. The towel brushed past one of Sam's bruises and Dean pressed down on it. It ached intensely for a moment and then Dean wiped off a thick smear of blood near his elbow.

Dean remembered the last time they'd talked - not in words, but in a visceral gut punch of pain. The last words that Sam had ever said to him were imprinted where memory of the conversation should be, all of it distilled into a single moment of them glaring at each other, bowties undone and hanging limp around their necks.

"Come back." Dean remembered he'd said that, that through the windows he could see the wedding party going on, the white spinning of Jessica dancing with her father, the pale pink bridesmaids like candy icing on the edge of the dancing.

"Dean," Sam had looked away, pinched the tears out of his eyes. "I'm never coming back. And I want you-"

The silence stretched on and Sam had finished quietly, "I want you to never come back here."

After that, there hadn't been any more yelling, no more accusations, and Dean hadn't been able to ask again, ever.

He'd danced with Jessica, with Sam not watching them on the sidelines. She spun gracefully in his arms and danced like her body was motion, like she'd lived to wear this white dress and take a man named Sam away from his brother.

A few months later, Pastor Jim had forwarded pictures Sam had sent him of the wedding, one of Sam with his arm around Dean, the other of Jess and Sam, looking so unbelievably happy that it hurt him to touch the photo.

The bathroom handle jiggled and then twisted, opening the door inwards. Dean found himself reaching for the gun tucked into the back of his jeans, hand hanging uncertain near the butt of the gun. Anna stepped in quickly, shutting the door behind her, hands still on the doorknob as she leaned back.

"You smell awful."

For a second he paused and then frowned, pulling an arm to his nose to sniff. The stench of goblin was overwhelming, like burning rubber and rotting fruit. He winced away from it.

Her eyes caught his and then released, skimming down over his body.

"I'm off shift," she said. "Why don't you come home with me?"

Her words were said calmly, like it was normal to take home a bloody hunter. He stood up and leaned over towards her. In the mirror, he saw himself as looming.

She stared back, unafraid and he let her take the paper towel he had clenched in his hand and drop it into the trash. He let her coax him back into his jacket, zip it back up to cover the brown stains on the hem of his shirt.

While he watched her, she stepped out, checked the back door and then gestured him through. Behind them, she locked the security door. Out back there was a dumpster, rusting at the edges, a whole piece rusted through at the bottom, trash dripping out onto the pavement. She ignored it, starting to walk towards the apartment buildings down the block. He followed, his steps curbed for her shorter stride.

The front door to the apartment building was propped open with a San Francisco Chronicle. Seeing it, she sighed and pushed in the door, letting him inside and then kicking the newspaper out of the doorway. It shut with a final click and she glanced at him, shrugging.

They walked up the stairs in companionable silence, climbing up to her floor. Her door was halfway down the hall, the farthest from either fire exit.

"You live alone?" he asked, breaking the silence.

"Yeah," she nodded and went into her apartment first. He could almost feel the salt lines as he stepped over her doorway. It was dark and she headed through the hallways to turn on lights. Behind him, he locked the deadbolt, slid the chain lock into place.

"Bathroom's in here," she said, and he followed her voice through the living room, taking the washcloth she handed him. His hand paused on the door behind him, and he turned to her.

"Don't close it," she said. "I'm going to go get the first aid kit."

He left it open to the emptiness of her house and felt relieved that he knew the crash in the kitchen was just her and not his dead brother.

*****

After she'd bandaged his hand, he settled shirtless onto her couch while she made herself some tea.

"I'm sorry about your brother," Anna said.

"How'd you know?" he asked, sharp and irritated. Her television was off, but some light reflected off the dusty screen, giving him a warped picture of her.

He could hear her movement in the kitchen stop. "I called Ellen. She's worried about you."

"You shouldn't have done that," he said.

"Why not? You did the same for my place." She moved the kettle off the stove before it could whistle. When she came back into the room, she sat on the arm of the sofa, watching him. He didn't turn to look at her.

"I'm sorry about your brother," she said, again.

His hands tightened into fists on his knees, pulling at the bandages she'd tightened around his knuckles. She didn't know what it was like at all, and her sympathy felt hollow and unimportant.

She slid down the side of the arm rest and put her hand over his. Her hand was warm from the mug of hot tea and he turned his hand palm up out of habit. She slid her fingers neatly in between his and clasped his hand, gently.

"Do you need to sleep?" she asked. Her eyes were watching his and she licked her lip as though by accident.

Anna looked different from Jess, her whole body felt different, and when he leaned in to kiss her, kiss away the feel of Jess on his tongue, she tasted like chai and like beer under that. When he slid his hands under her shirt, she let him tug it off; she let out a soft exhalation against his neck when he unclasped her bra.

In his palms, her breasts were as warm and human. She moved easily onto his lap, settling her legs on either side of his hips and she let him touch her skin, taste her shoulder and neck.

He suckled on her breast and then laid her out on the couch, hands pulling at his own jeans as she shimmied out of hers.

She grinned and pulled a condom out of her wallet. There was an absurdity in the situation, an awkwardness that broke when he started laughing, face against her stomach. She laughed with him, vibrating through her chest.

Still laughing, she helped him slide the condom on, her fingers slender and soft, without Jess's long nails.

It was slow, pushing into her. Her legs held him and her arms stayed around his neck. She exhaled like a sigh. He came inside her and pulled out, knotting the condom. She took it from him and tossed it in the trash, then came back in, seemingly unaware of her nudity.

"Did you, uh-" He stopped.

Her expression was almost amused, almost mournful.

"C'mon," she said, extending her hand towards him. "Let's go to bed."

They slept in her bed, spooned with his back against the wall, one arm over her stomach, pulling her tight against him.

He woke because her phone was ringing, screaming in the still light of morning. Reaching over her, he picked it up and held it to her ear, let her talk with his face against her neck, her voice vibrating against his cheek.

"What?" She grabbed the phone from his hand and sat up, pulling a sheet up over her breasts. "Candace, what happened to your mom?"

Her hand pushed at his shoulder, jerking him into wakefulness unsympathetically. He watched her face in profile, the expression closed down and cold. "Ok," she said, finally.

With a steady hand, she set the phone in its cradle.

"Did you go see Mrs. Nguyen over in Little Saigon?"

He watched her lips pull together, her hand clutch the sheet to her chest.

"Yeah, she was helping Sam with something," Dean said.

"She's dead."

He crawled over her legs, already pulling on jeans, looking for his shirt. She was quiet while he tightened the laces on his boots, found his keys in his jacket.

"I have to go," he said, reaching for her hand.

She pulled it out of his reach. "Get out of here, Dean."

Her expression said what she didn't voice. _She was alive until you talked to her_.

He shut the door behind him, listening for the sound of her snapping the deadbolt in before he jogged down the stairs, almost running for the Impala. The morning was chilly and his car was the only one in the bar's parking lot.

Rush hour traffic didn't make it easy to move through the city and he got there too long after the call. The police were hanging around and he could make out Evans and Fulmar, their arms crossed while they argued in the street. He drove past the scene, then turned to park and walk back.

The crowd shoved at him when he tried to get near the scene and eventually he asked, "What happened?"

"Murder," the woman next to him said. "Nguyen's place."

He nodded. "How'd it happen?"

"They don't know, said she was stabbed in the stomach."

The body came out, black bag rolling into an ambulance. Someone came out behind with huge bags and Dean would bet that there were internal organs being put next to the body in the ambulance. He didn't have to check to know that whatever got Sam had figured out who Mrs. Nguyen was, where she lived.

Making his way around the crowd, he climbed up the fire escape to the roof of the building next door, hands steady as he moved.

He had a good angle into Mrs. Nguyen's room; he could see the red stain where she must have been found. It partially covered a black line he could see drawn on the ground. The carpet had been folded back to reveal half of what looked like a rune.

It tugged at his memory, he knew he'd seen something like it before. There was a crack in it, though, pointing towards the red smear on the ground. Whatever Mrs. Nguyen had captured had gotten her instead.

Evans crossed in front of the windows, his jacket gone, the holster of his gun visible near his elbow. His eyes snapped up and Dean flattened himself on the roof. After a second, he began to move backwards. He'd have to break into the scene later, figure out where he'd seen the circle before, where he knew it from.

Gravel scraped his palms when he pushed himself up, and he looked down to make sure it wasn't cutting through the skin. No one he knew in San Francisco would be able to help him identify the rune, and after this, he doubted many people would help him.

Hunters who got their partners killed gained reputations like his Dad had, dangerous and untrustworthy. Anna had looked at him like she looked at Gordon.

In the Impala, he wiped his hands with rough paper napkins and looked at the clock. It was barely eleven in the morning, and he couldn't remember what day it was. Time flowed in one direction, away from Sam's death, like a river carrying him farther from his brother.

Sam was like a marker in the middle of his life. Everything before Sam's death was compressed into one image of his baby brother curled asleep in his lap. Everything after was the one long impossible day he had to find Sam's killer.

He had to find Gordon. Gordon would know someone who knew about runes. And if Gordon had done this, Dean would know. Looking at him, he'd have to know.

Torturing a goblin was one thing, but killing a human would show in Gordon's eyes. It had to or there was nothing between Gordon and the demon. After years of Dad's stories, Dean wasn't sure if he'd actually seen the thing with eyes darker than night or if he'd filled in his memory with details Dad wanted to hear.

Mrs. Nguyen had been a good person. The thing that had killed her would have to be evil, evil to the core. It wasn't a fine distinction between human and demon, but he'd learned the hard way that evil was evil, even when it was human on the outside.

He started the car and turned to drive past the crime scene once more when he heard the gun shot.

A second later, there was a screech and the sound of glass breaking. Traffic stopped and Dean didn't need to see it to figure that someone had slammed on their brakes and the car behind them had slammed into them. Illegally reversing back into his parking spot, Dean got out of the car, heading towards the crime scene.

Fulmar was on the ground and Evans was being shoved against a police car. A uniformed officer was talking quietly as he cuffed Evans, but it didn't seem to be doing any good.

Evan's face was bright red, and he was gasping, saying something between breaths.

"He stole it, I know he did."

Dean couldn't tell if Fulmar was breathing and he backed up, stepping into traffic to get away. Crossing the street, he tried not to attract attention. It was Jack, it had to be. It had Jack's fingerprints all over it.

He pulled out his cell phone, and dialed, getting no response. He didn't leave a message. Sitting down on the concrete curb between parked cars, he listened to two patrol officers talk behind him.

"Evans says that Fulmar took something from the scene that would help them pin their suspect."

The other officer whistled, and his shoes were smudged with wear, scratched at the toe and badly polished. Dean didn't look up.

"Did he?"

"They didn't find it on him. Doesn't look like they did, anyway. And the scene was clean."

"Evans, huh? Guy just can't catch a break. Did you hear how they lost his paycheck this month and so his landlord kicked him out? He's been living with Fulmar."

There was a pause and the other one choked off a laugh. "Not anymore," he said, eventually.

Dean stood up, dusted himself off, casually smiling at the officers as though he was embarrassed, as though he had no thoughts of a piece of wood aiming for Jack's heart. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. He stumbled a bit and one of the cops reached out to steady him.

"Blood," he explained. "Makes me woozy."

"There he is! That's Winchester!" Evans screamed. He was facing towards Dean. For one terrifying moment, the officers glanced at Dean and he twisted his smile into confused as easily as he'd done embarrassed.

The officers turned to him slowly and he forced himself not to run.

"Sir, can we see some ID?"

"Yeah," Dean frowned a little, digging his wallet out of his back pocket.

His jacket caught in the morning light and he was relieved, desperately relieved that Anna had cleaned it for him. Casually he handed over a driver's license with Dean's face and Kirk Hammett's name on it.

The officer looked at it, then up at Dean. "Huh. You've got the same name as that guy from Metallica."

Shrugging, Dean said, "Yeah."

The officer handed back the ID and waved off his partner. "You like their music?"

"Sometimes," Dean said. "I mean, they're ok."

But the officer was already paying attention to the other side of the street again where Evans was going insane trying to get to Dean. Using the distraction, Dean casually headed down the street towards the Impala. No one tried to stop him again.

He could hunt Jack after he'd found out about the rune. Jack couldn't be that hard to find. He hadn't been the first time around and if he was getting his taste for blood back, Dean would have just that much easier a time picking up his trail.

Dean flipped open his cell phone and dug Gordon's number out of his pocket.

Gordon picked up on the second ring, just as Dean was pulling back out into traffic.

"Hello?"

"It's Dean." He narrowly avoided a bus. "I need some help."

The pause seemed to go on forever, and Dean knew how that sounded. It sounded like he was trusting Gordon.

"What can I do for you?"

"Do you know anyone who knows about runes?"

One-handed, he made a right turn, twisting his wrist to make it all the way.

"Not locally, but I carry some books with me." Gordon didn't ask why he needed them. "Want to meet?"

"Yeah," Dean said.

"The Full Moon?" Gordon offered.

"Somewhere else." Dean didn't want to look at Anna and know that he had another death on his conscience.

There was a short pause and Gordon said, "There's a restaurant in Hunter's Point. You have a pen?"

"Yeah." Dean listened to the directions, repeated them after Gordon and then said, "An hour from now?"

"Sounds good."

Gordon hung up first and Dean made a left, his car merging with the tight traffic of a city with boundaries. The buildings rose around him and by the time he reached Hunter's Point, he was ready for the change in scenery. Some of the houses were squat, low digs that looked ready for demolition and they contrasted with the rebuilt sections of the neighborhood.

He drove past a mural of Malcom X and Jimi Hendrix and pulled out his cell phone again.

The roadhouse phone rang twice before Ellen picked it up. "Hello," she said, no question at the end.

"I need to talk to Ash," Dean said.

"Dean Winchester," Ellen said. "You didn't tell me your brother was dead. Bobby and Jo are headed out to meet you."

"I need to talk to Ash, Ellen," Dean repeated. Hopefully this would be over before they got to San Francisco, before they had to see how inept a hunter he was when things mattered.

"Here," she said, and he heard her yell for Ash, heard the crash of someone dropping a beer bottle.

There was chaos on the other end and then Ash picked up, casual and pretending to not be out of breath.

"Yo," Ash said.

"Where's Gordon staying?" Dean asked.

He wasn't going to meet at the restaurant, he wasn't going to wait to see if Gordon told him the truth or not. He had to see Gordon's eyes, look in them and know whether he'd killed Mrs. Nguyen or whether it was the invisible demon he was no closer to catching now than he was days ago.

"I dunno, Dean," Ash hedged his words, pausing at the end.

"Where is he?" Dean stopped at a red light, foot pressing too hard on the brakes. "I swear to god, Ash..."

"Alright, alright." Ash gave in easily and Dean wondered if Ellen was there, urging him to give Dean what he wanted.

The address Ash recited was deep in a warehouse district, which Dean only realized when he was already turning onto the road, into the old buildings that looked like they used to be for shipping. There were houses scattered on side roads, shacks built into houses and he spotted Gordon's car.

Dean swung the Impala around, parked a few houses down and waited. Taking out his gun, he checked the clip, snapped the safety off and on, off and on, like he was some idiot kid playing with his father's gun. It was too ingrained in him to wait, to be the hunter. Instead of charging in, he watched his rearview until he saw Gordon pull out, head down the road.

Then he got out of the car.

The lock on the back door was so pathetic it could almost be wrenched open instead of picked, but he took his time, picked it efficiently, and then walked in cautiously. There was a trip wire just inside the door and he stepped over it.

A step later and he paused, feeling the resistance against his shin. He closed his eyes and said, "Fuck" out loud, angry at himself for being so careless. Of course there would be a second trip wire.

Leaning backwards, he slowly moved his leg away, hoping that it wouldn't still go off. He wished he'd checked to see what the first one had been attached to, what he might be setting off. When his leg was finally pulled away from the wire, he paused.

No explosion.

Dean exhaled and traced the two wires back to grenades in the wall. That could have gotten ugly, blood and bone for Gordon to come home to. Carefully, he clipped the wires that were attached to the pins.

Gordon wasn't that complex a man. There would be tricks at all the entrances and exits, but he was safe inside. Dean knew that that was how he'd do it, anyway.

The bedroom was standard, but Dean lifted the mattress anyway, scaring two cockroaches out of their hiding darkness, but revealing no clues. He checked the fridge and found a few days' worth of food, some wrapped leftovers. Nothing hidden. There were some standard ice packs and a bag of peas in an otherwise empty freezer.

Nothing in the drawers either, and after meticulously checking the pantry, he moved on to the living room. The television had been kicked in, and the sofa was melted where someone had tried to torch it. Polyester turned into a melted mess under heat and Dean saw where the springs had broken through. He checked under the cushions and grinned when his hand came into contact with paper.

"Yahtzee," he said, pulling out the manila envelope and reaching back in between the cushions for the small bound planner. He wondered how many other hunters kept things the way Dad did with meticulous notes on every evil thing in the world.

If Dean had a journal he would pause before entering in Gordon. Right now, Gordon was still just incredibly cruel, not quite _evil_.

Dean flipped open the journal and found that it was nothing like Dad's. Gordon's was made of maps tucked into pages, dates and gas made out to calculate miles per gallon. Gordon's had other hunter's names written in the margins, their phone numbers and addresses penciled in below.

The addresses were erased and rewritten, sometimes enough times that Dean could see the gray pressed into the thin pages.

He flipped open to the 'W's and found his father's phone number. The address had been rubbed out meticulously. When he held it up to the light, he could see where their old house had been written in. Not the Lawrence house, but the one where they stayed during Sam's high school years.

The image of Gordon showing up on their concrete doorstep, maybe smiling at Sammy, struck him and he turned to the envelope. It could have happened and Gordon would have taken their father and Dad might not have come back. The thought made Dean rip open the envelope, forgetting that he might want to make it appear he hadn't been there.

There were pictures of people, blurred with the distance of a telephoto lens. Dean flipped through and a piece of paper fell out, a list of names and addresses. The handwriting was familiar enough that Dean checked it against the memory of his father's.

Some names were crossed out, others circled. His finger hit his brother's name and kept going until his brain caught up with it.

Sam Winchester had been circled and then crossed out, with a single pen stroke.

Sam Winchester. Underneath were the addresses to Sam's apartment and work.

It hit him then, where he'd seen 't's crossed so carelessly. Ash had once scribbled out an address for him on the back of a receipt. He recognized the writing.

"Motherfucker." Goosebumps rose on his arms, numbness sweeping up his fingertips and over his chest. "I think they killed you, Sam."

He shuffled through the photos until he found Sam's, a paparazzi shot of him grinning, one arm slung around Jess's shoulder.

Gordon had circled him, black pen not quite meeting the beginning of the circle. There were notes scribbled on the back, times and places.

 _Leaves for work at 7 am. Lunch 12-1. Leaves for home 6-7._

A list of streets between Sam's home and work.

Pulling out his phone, Dean dialed the only number he could think of.

"Hello?" Jess was hoarse, like she'd just woken.

"Jess. I need you to look something up for me."

There was a pause. "Dean?"

"Yeah, I need you to get on a computer -"

"You didn't come home last night." Her voice was muffled a little, like her hand was over the receiver.

"Just get on a computer!" he snapped, suddenly angry at her and her pathetic grief for a brother she'd taken from him.

There was shuffling and he heard the sound of Windows starting.

"Ok," she said, after a moment.

He looked to the top of the list and followed a finger down until he reached the first crossed off name. "Scott Carey."

"What am I looking for?" she asked.

"Just look him up. News. Anything."

"Um. A graduation announcement." There was a pause. "He was stabbed to death a year ago."

Dean slumped against the couch, his nose itching from the scent of burned polyester and he read the next name on the list.

"Ava Wilson."

The pause was shorter this time. "Died in a car bomb last month. Dean? What's going on?"

"Andrew Gallagher." The locations weren't connected, the names weren't in order, there wasn't anything similar about them except that Gordon had a list from Ash and, so far, they were all dead.

"Shot to death a year and a half ago." She inhaled and he could tell she was going to ask again, ask him why he wanted her to look up dead people.

He hung up and turned off his cell phone. There was another name on the list that had a San Francisco address, but it hadn't been crossed out yet.

Logically, Gordon should have left town as soon as he'd killed a Winchester. Dean figured that Gordon was the type of guy who would only want to make the trip once. He wouldn't leave if there was another hunt in town.

The idea of Gordon killing Sam was something he'd thought of, over and over, turning it over like something true. But it hadn't been real until he saw the list, saw that his brother's name was just another notch on Gordon's belt.

Gordon had killed Sam and Dean hadn't been there to protect his baby brother. He wanted to go back in time, wanted to keep Sam off the bus to Stanford, wanted to kidnap him his freshman year and take him hunting, wanted to come up behind Gordon before Gordon could kill Sam and pull a knife across Gordon's throat.

Leaving the evidence in front of the couch, Dean stood. He had rope in the car. He had to take care of this.

******

The phone call was brief. He tightened knots as he listened to his father's voice.

"Dad. It's Dean. I found out who killed Sam. I'm taking care of it."

*****

Gordon came home two hours after he left. Dean wondered how long he'd waited for Dean to show, and how many errands he'd had to run after that. How many more bullets he'd had to buy.

Dean had left the lights off while he worked. He'd had plenty of notice before Gordon came inside, the car in the driveway, the sound of the key in the lock.

He was absolutely ready.

When the bat hit Gordon in the face, it made a solid, thick sound. It made the sound of someone fast becoming a corpse.

Gordon fell, reaching out with his hands and Dean could tell he was trying to avoid the trip wires he'd set out, not knowing Dean had already cut the wires, leaving the grenades in place in case he needed them.

Dean kicked an arm out from under Gordon, splaying him on the floor and making it easier to pull a wrist behind him, wrench it up and almost out of its socket. He kept a knee on Gordon's lower back as he cuffed him, pants getting soaked in the blood spreading under Gordon's face.

As he grabbed at the neck of Gordon's shirt, dragging him to the chair he'd set up, he ignored the smear of blood that followed them. By the time that Dean started pulling Gordon into the chair, Gordon was nearly conscious again, making noises that would have sounded like Dean's name if his nose hadn't been broken.

When he opened his mouth, Dean noticed that the bat had done good work on his front teeth; one was knocked out and the other cracked in half.

"Don't bother." Dean pulled the rope he'd already tied to the chair through Gordon's cuffs, pulling them tight, bending Gordon backwards. He zip tied Gordon's ankles to the chair and stood back, to check for any escape possibilities.

Gordon's eyes were clearing when he snapped them up to Dean's. His left pupil was blown out, but his eyes were tracking almost the same. It wasn't clear yet if Dean had messed up the left eye permanently. Gordon opened his mouth again, spitting out something that sounded almost like words.

Blood dripped down his face thickly, red saliva leaking out of his mouth.

"I just want to know why you had to do Mrs. Nguyen. All you'd have to do was leave town before I got here." He'd spent time sharpening his knives before Gordon got home. He took one out and showed it to Gordon, flipped it open and put it near his good eye.

"Why'd you stick around, Gordon? Was the other hunt too much to give up on?"

If Gordon answered, Dean didn't bother listening.

Gordon didn't scream at first, his self-control impressive until Dean noticed he'd bit clean through his lip, teeth almost visible on the other side.

Dean knew how to be creative with knives; it was something his father had taught him while looking straight into Dean's eyes. He'd pointed to organs, and said, "Don't cut here." He'd never exactly told Dean _where_ to cut, but Dean knew how to read between the lines of what his father did and didn't say, an exercise in understanding the complicated mind of John Winchester.

His father would have said that he couldn't kill Gordon. That whatever Gordon had done, he was still human. But there, in that line, was a gaping wide hole of opportunity. Dean couldn't _kill_ Gordon.

"All right," Dean said. He flexed a fist and swung.

*****

The blood on his hands was the same color as goblin blood, and he washed his hands in the sink when he was done. He cleaned under his nails with a plastic fork. He couldn't do anything about his clothes, but his hands were clean.

Gordon was still breathing, and Dean crouched in front of him for a while, watching the rise and fall of his chest, listening to the gasping sound he made while breathing, trying not to swallow blood. The left eye had trailed off, but the right eye was focused on him.

"…'ill 'ou."

Dean nodded. "Yeah."

He left through the front door, walking the four blocks to where he'd hidden the Impala. It was dark outside, nearly midnight. In the streetlamps, he knew that he looked like a perfect target, shoulders hunched, oblivious, but no one passed him.

Inside the Impala, Dean tucked the knives under the passenger seat and rested his hands on the wheel.

*****

There was a spot a half a block down from Sam's apartment and Dean parked, sat in the Impala for a moment listening to cars go by. Two drunken girls leaned on each other, passing within feet of him.

He didn't offer to help them home.

"I did it, Sam," Dean said. The car was silent and he pulled his jacket more tightly around him.

Getting out of the car, he opened his trunk and tucked the gun in with the rest of his hunting supplies. The knives got tucked into their spots, and when he closed the trunk, his shoulders felt heavy. For a second, he leaned both hands on the Impala's trunk, palms flat on the cold metal.

The walk to the apartment was short and by the time he opened the door to the lobby he knew what he was going to say.

Jess was sitting on the couch, phone in her hands. In front of her was an old cup, the type from museums or Indiana Jones movies. He glanced at it with a frown.

"It's a prop from a play Sam did," Jess said, dully. She buried her face in her knees.

Something was different about her and he couldn't quite pin it down. Her skin looked flushed and warm. Dean shrugged it off.

"I did it," he said, instead.

"What?" she turned to him, eyes wide.

"There was a guy who ... There was a guy who thought Sam was doing something he wasn't and he killed Sam. He killed a lot of people." The words were easy, looking at her face. She looked like she didn't get what he was saying.

"And you killed him?" Her mouth twisted, and he realized she was wearing lipstick, lip liner that made her lips look full and lush.

"I made sure that he paid," Dean said. He reached out for her and couldn't figure out what was different.

"But what was he doing? What did the guy think he was doing?"

She uncurled her legs and put one leg on the coffee table, revealing a long swath of smooth skin that disappeared into the blanket on her lap.

"The guy thought that he was working for some ... criminals." Dean couldn't explain about demons and spirits, knowing that after he left, she'd move on to get her normal little life back.

"But Sam wasn't?" she asked, arching her foot on the table. He traced the movement, the curve of her foot into her calf.

"No," Dean said.

" _How_ was he _not_?" she asked, and there wasn't any vindication in her voice, no grief, just an irritation.

"What?" Dean asked. The cup on the table was filled with a dark wine that smelled familiar. He could barely smell anything over the scent of blood and urine and bile from Gordon.

Jess rolled her eyes.

"Jesus, you're slow. I wanted you to find out what he was doing that was keeping him from working for me and you go and kill another hunter. Brilliant work, Dean. _Brilliant_."

She laughed, throwing her head back, letting her hair fall down her shoulder.

"You even managed to kill the one guy who got closer to me than your Daddy."

When she grinned at him, her eyes were yellow.

Dean reached for his gun and realized that he'd left it in his car.

"Sam," he said, quietly. "I could really use some help right now."

"Oh," Jess covered her mouth with her hand and stood up, dropping the blanket on the floor. She pushed her hair off of her shoulder. "You think Sam is still here. That's so cute."

Dean took two steps back and she took one forward. Her hands had red under the nails, he noticed when she gestured.

"The bruises? The dreams?" She smirked, lips twisted up and amused. "All me. Sam's dead as a doornail. Gone to sleep with the fishes. He's up, up, and away. You think he'd stick around for you? Don't be stupid. He abandoned you for college, didn't he?"

Winking at him, Jessica took a deep breath and her voice changed into a familiar one, "Sam Winchester, you are worth more than your brother. You're worth more than the jail he's going to go to. Get your degree. Be a lawyer. _Leave_ them." Jess licked her lips and when she spoke, it was in her voice again. "You know he actually thought that Mrs. Tyler was just his subconscious at first?"

Sam wasn't going to help him. Sam hadn't stayed around for his demon wife, hadn't even stayed around to help Dean out of this mess.

"How long?" Dean asked. He moved his hand down his leg, brushing past his pockets, feeling coins but no weapons.

"You mean was it me in that white dress? Or how about when he finally turned you away, was it me then?" The Demon pouted at him. "Or how about when someone hit dear Jessica's parents, who would have been here when her dear Sammy died? Let me think. Nope. The lady declines to comment."

Dean felt with his hand for anything useful, but she beat him to the kitchen island, getting between him and the knives.

"Don't be silly, brother-in-law." Her hand closed around a cleaver. "You know the kitchen is for girls. So, did you figure out how he was eluding me? The witch in Chinatown was about as helpful as a palm reader. By the way, Missouri says 'hi.'"

"Don't touch her," Dean ground out, voice thick. He was closest to Sam's office. He could get in, lock the door and ... and what? He couldn't believe after days of high-strung paranoia he hadn't brought any weapons in with him.

"So sorry, my kids said that they took care of her and Jim Murphy today," she said as she shook her curls. "Kids these days, huh? Speaking of, guess whose baby is growing in Jess's belly? The body isn't really built for babies, but then again, neither was Mary's. Poor woman almost died when Sam was born. Shouldn't speak ill of the dead, but that woman was just. So. Eager to make a little half demon baby."

The demon cocked a hip, and looked him up and down like he was a mannequin in a store window. He tasted copper and bile, wanted to rip off her face and feed it to goblins.

"You were the reject, you know? Failed the first time around, you just don't have the head for this sort of thing, sorry Dean-o."

Dean didn't let his muscles tense to give away his plan. He just moved, spinning into Sam's office and slamming the door behind him, locking the pathetic lock on the knob. The weapons that Sam had Dean'd already cleaned out for supplies, but he snapped on the desk lamp to check anyway.

The cleaver pounded into the door and Jess's voice was audible above it. "Let's just forget this, Dean. You tell me what Sam was doing and I'll let you sleep with Jessica's body until you feel better. That sound like _fun_?"

She punctuated the word with another hack into the door.

The desk lamp did nothing and it took him a second to realize that it was still the black bulb. He pushed back the carpet to look for the white bulb, not remembering where he'd put it.

The lines on the floor glowed in the black light and Dean stared for too long before shoving the whole rug off and viewing the circle. It was identical to the rune that he'd seen at Mrs. Nguyen's place, but the name slipped his mind.

Pulling the rug back into place, he reached for anything, a desk weight, a letter opener, _anything_ and heard Jess say, "Here's _Johnny_."

"Don't quit your day job," Dean said. "I think that you'd get more laughs out of jokes that aren't older than my dad."

The door blew open just as his hand closed over the box he'd hidden on the desk. He was still loading the gun when she stepped into the office.

"Oh, how cute. Sam was keeping firearms in their home. Unlicensed, I bet. Careless boy." Tilting her head, she said, "You know, you were _much_ better in bed than he was. And the newest Winchester would be yours but ... well, Sam wasn't exactly shooting blanks in bed."

Her steps were deliberate, like she was stalking him. When she slammed into the edge of the rune, he laughed. Raising her hands, she felt at the boundaries.

"Oh, give me a _break_ ," she said.

The whole building shook as she cracked open the trap. He snapped the gun closed and raised it.

"Devil's trap? Really original, Dean."

Dean fired.

The bullet flew perfectly from the Colt, hitting her in the middle of her forehead. For a second, she looked surprised, reaching up to touch where the bullet had hit.

She fell fast, darkness surging out of her body. Jess convulsed as it left her, body losing all animation and he smelled foul waste as the Demon abandoned its host. The dark blackness was dying, he could tell, but it lashed out and a second too late he realized that it was trying to kill him.

His whole body slammed back against the wall, and the last thing he heard before everything faded was the sound of the Demon dying.

He woke as it was getting light and pushed himself up onto his hands and knees to crawl over to Jessica's body. Uselessly, he checked for a pulse and found none. For a second, he bent his head over her, rubbing his eyes with one hand.

The sound of a gun being cocked made him start, made him look up to where Gordon was propped against the wall.

Gordon's good eye was clear when he pulled the trigger and Dean felt it hit his chest, hit his heart. He fell, letting the momentum of the bullet carry him.

When he looked up, he saw Gordon limping towards him and then he saw Sam, leaning over him, blocking Gordon from view.

"C'mon, Dean," Sam shook his head. "Time to go."

Dean let Sam reach down and help him up. For a moment, before the second bullet hit, he felt happy.

*****

End.


End file.
